cold

into the air. "I don't care what."
Instantly a place setting, goblets, a decanter of wine all appeared before his favorite seat, one which permitted him either to look out through the windows at the woods and meadows or call up a clear panel on the far wall that would show the outside corridor. He did neither, staring sightlessly down at the delicate porcelain plate until, a few moments later, he became aware that it was still empty. He looked around, puzzled, and then laughed at himself.
The cold iron, even muffled at it was, was keeping his servitors away. Sighing, he rose and went into the living room. There, he deposited his prize in a shielded box he used to keep odd trinkets he had taken from the victims of the Wild Hunt. They were all things with some feel of power to them, things Koronos said should not be left for others to find but that no one else wished to touch. Nor did anyone else have any suggestions about how to dispose of the objects, so Denoriel, the least affected, kept them.
He looked down at them: an odd little knife, mostly of bone but with an ugly hook and serrated edge of steel; a whistle that had almost defeated the whole Wild Hunt because it sent the dogs howling and groveling in agony and brought all the elvensteeds to their knees; three matched steel coins with sharp edges connected by short thin chain to . . . Denoriel had no idea for what those coins were used, but there was an ugly feeling about them.
Shaking free of the recurring