Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

Her mother and sisters tutted and scolded—at least, did so after shrieking and hugging and crying. Her brothers hugged her solemnly, then stole away back to work or for a mug or two with Chen. Yalia retained her composure and peace in dealing with all of them.

And then she got to her grandmother. The old pandaren had grown frail with years, hunched, her flesh hanging loosely. She walked with a cane, better than Tyrathan on his worst days, but not by much. Age had clouded her dark eyes, so she lifted a paw to Yalia’s face and let it linger.

“Are you the granddaughter I lent my scarf to?”

“Yes, Ama.”

“Have you brought it back?”

Yalia looked down. “No, Ama.”

“On your next visit you will, Granddaughter. I have been missing it.”

Then the old pandaren smiled, gap-toothed, and embraced Yalia. Silence reigned as the elder female disappeared in the circle of Yalia’s arms. Their bodies shook with sobs that went unheard, which everyone affected not to notice.

Which was why Tswen-luo burped loudly and inappropriately to divert attention to himself. Chen, being a good guest, and protective of his reputation as a prodigious belcher himself, rattled the rafters quickly thereafter. That way the women could not vent their emotions in scolding the patriarch too much, and Yalia and her grandmother were granted a bit more privacy amid utter chaos.

Over the next two days, reconstruction work finished in the village and preparations for building the brewery commenced. Chen designated Li Li as his agent and enlisted the Stoneraker brothers—who happened to arrive with the food they’d promised—as masons. They clearly weren’t cut out to be farmers, since their fields had grown more stones than turnips, and they’d spent enough time hauling rocks from their fields that a mason’s work suited them.

Chen took some time to gather herbs from the area and prepare a test mix in a wooden keg, which he strapped to the small of his back. It sloshed as he and Yalia slogged their way back to the monastery. He burped it every so often, and watered it, and fed bits of this and that to the mix.

On the road Chen frowned as Yalia paused at the base of a switchback. “I realize I may need to apologize, Sister Yalia.”

“Whatever for?”

“For inserting myself into Zouchin.”

She shook her head. “You have been seeking a home, and you found that Zouchin felt like home. Why would you apologize for that?”

“It is your home, and I would not intrude on your privacy.”

Yalia laughed, and Chen enjoyed the sound of it immensely. “Dear Chen, the monastery is my home. I am fond of Zouchin—and fonder now that you like it as well. But you, as a wanderer, must know that a true sense of home must be carried within. If one cannot spend a silent evening sipping tea and feel at peace, there is no geographical place that will confer that peace. We seek a place because it amplifies that peace. It shows us another face of it and reflects it back on us.”

She pointed back down in the distance. “By seeing Zouchin through your eyes, and by reuniting with my family at your suggestion, I now have another place that will amplify peace. But you should know that on a quiet night, sipping tea with a friend, I feel even more peaceful.”

Chen felt that had she suddenly become a tree and rooted herself in that spot, he would never wander farther than the shade she provided. He couldn’t say that, of course, and his smile couldn’t convey it. So he climbed up to where she stood, wishing the brew would not slosh so loudly, and nodded.

“Quiet night, or loud, with tea or beer or just cool water, I would also feel at peace with my friend.”

She shyly turned her face from his, but could not hide a smile. “Then let us return to our home away from our homes, and enjoy that peace as well.”

Only after Yalia had made a case to allow it did Taran Zhu agree to permit Chen to share his new concoction with a select few of the monks in the monastery. Yalia was not among them—Taran Zhu had chosen five of the eldest. Chen wasn’t sure if the master monk felt things would turn into a drunken debauch, or if he just felt these monks might appreciate the new experience. He was betting more on the former than the latter.

Vol’jin and Tyrathan also joined the group, though they arrived separately. Chen couldn’t help but notice a stiffness and formality between them. It probably wasn’t that vast a gulf, but compared to the closeness he felt with Yalia, the two of them appeared to be continents drifting apart.

Chen poured for each guest a modest portion of his concoction. “Please understand this is not a final formula. I mixed many things together, including some of the spring beer I brewed a while ago and left forgotten in the storerooms. I won’t tell you what I mean this to be. What I wish from each of you is to know not what it tastes like but what it feels like. You’ll taste and smell, but those sensations will link back to memories.”

He raised his own bowl. “To home and friends.” He bowed his head first to Taran Zhu, then Vol’jin, then all the others in order around the table. As one, save for Taran Zhu, they drank.

Chen let the brew linger on his tongue. He easily picked out berries and hints of heart’s ease, but other ingredients had mixed and mingled into a sometimes sweet and sometimes sharp taste, with just a bit of bite. He swallowed, relishing the scratch running down his throat, then set his cup down.

“This reminds me of a time, in lands beyond the mists, when I found myself the dinner guest of three ravenous ogres. Well, not their dinner guest really, but their dinner. They argued among themselves what I was going to taste most like. One said I’d taste like rabbit, since I was a bit mottled, and I said, ‘Very close.’ Another suggested bear, for obvious reasons, and I said, ‘Very close again.’ And the third said crow—he had a rather odd dent in his skull—so I said, ‘Very close for you as well.’ Which left them arguing.”

A monk smiled. “So you chanced to escape.”

“Very close.” Chen grinned and drank a bit more. “I offered to settle the argument by way of a contest, with a prize. I told them to fetch rabbit, bear, and crow, and to cook each up, for they must have the taste in their mouths if they were to know what I truly tasted like. And I offered to brew something for each meat and then to make a brew they could enjoy with me. So they set off, each to fetch his meat. They cooked them all up, and I brewed. Then they ate. And I chanced to ask which brew tasted best with which meat, which set them arguing again. So they swapped meals and drinks around. And I, after a night’s revel, being the only sober one, walked away free in the morning.

“This brew reminds me of how freedom felt in the dawn’s light.”

The monks laughed and applauded—even Tyrathan chuckled. Only Taran Zhu and Vol’jin remained untouched by the story. But Vol’jin drank, then nodded and set his cup down. “This be reminding me of the peace one knows from crushing his enemies. Their dreams be dying with them, leaving your future clear, like a morning after rain. Its crispness be echoing the snap of their bones. The sweetness be the joy of hearing their dying sighs. And I be tasting the freedom there, as well.”

The troll’s story left everyone quiet and the monks wide-eyed. Tyrathan drank, then smiled. “For me it is autumn, as the leaves turn crimson and gold. It’s gathering the last of the crops, finding the last of the berries, everyone working together to lie in stores for the coming winter. It is a time of unity and joy in preparation for the uncertainty of winter—yet with the knowledge that hard work will be rewarded. So, it is freedom for me too.”