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Michael Stackpole: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

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Michael Stackpole Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

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Chen, having held the bow a respectfully long time, straightened up again. “What can I do for you?”

“A missive has arrived from your niece. She has, as you requested, visited the brewery and made sure they know you will be away for a short while. She is proceeding to the Temple of the White Tiger.” The monk inclined his head slightly. “For this latter thing I am grateful. Your niece’s strong spirit is… irrepressible. Her last visit…”

Chen nodded quickly. “Will be her last. It’s good to see that Brother Huon-kai is no longer limping.”

“He has recovered, both in body and spirit.” Taran Zhu’s eyes tightened. “Half as much can be said of your latest refugee. There are signs that the troll has regained his senses, though he still heals slowly.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I mean, not that he is healing slowly, but that he is awake.” Chen made to transfer the broom to Taran Zhu, then hesitated. “I’ll just put this away on my way to the infirmary.”

The elder monk raised a paw. “He sleeps at the moment. It is concerning him, and the man you brought previously, that prompts my desire to speak with you.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Taran Zhu turned and, in an eyeblink, had progressed along a windswept walkway that Chen had not gotten around to clearing. The monk moved so gracefully that his silken robes didn’t even whisper. Chen couldn’t see the least little sign of his spoor in the snow. Hurrying after him made Chen feel like a stone-footed thunder lizard.

The monk led him downstairs through dark, heavy doors, into dim corridors paved with carved stone. The stones had been fitted together in interesting patterns that united both each block and the designs carved on them. The few times Chen had volunteered to sweep them, he had spent far more time being lost inside the lines and their weavings than actually using his broom.

Their journey ended in a large room lit by four lamps. The center of the floor had been given over to a circular construction, fitted with a reed mat. At its heart sat a small table with a terra-cotta teapot, three cups, a whisk, a bamboo ladle, a tea caddy, and a tiny cast-iron pot.

And beside it knelt Yalia Sagewhisper, her eyes closed, her paws in her lap.

Chen couldn’t hold back a smile when he saw her, and had a sneaking suspicion Taran Zhu knew he was smiling and how broadly. Yalia had caught his eye immediately upon his first visit to the monastery, and not just because she was beautiful. The pandaren monk had a hint of the outsider to her that Chen noticed, then noticed her doing her best to suppress. They’d had a few brief conversations, of which he could remember every word. He wondered if she remembered them too.

Yalia stood and bowed first to Taran Zhu, then Chen. Her first bow lasted a long time. The second, not as much, but Chen marked it and matched it when he bowed to her. Taran Zhu pointed him to the narrow end of the rectangular table, nearest the cast-iron pot. Chen and Yalia knelt and sat back, and then Taran Zhu did likewise.

“You will forgive me, Master Stormstout, for two things. First, I would ask that you make us tea.”

“Deeply honored, Lord Taran Zhu.” Chen looked up. “Now?”

“If it will not disturb you to work and listen at the same time.”

“No, Lord.”

“And, second, you will forgive my inviting Sister Yalia here. I felt her perspective would be most illuminative.”

Yalia bowed her head—and Chen felt a little thrill at seeing the exposed nape of her neck—but she said nothing, so Chen remained silent as well. He started to make tea and immediately noticed something to which he’d not quite become accustomed, despite having spent a great deal of time at the monastery during his stay in Pandaria.

The cast-iron pot’s lid had an ocean wave motif worked onto it. The terra-cotta teapot had been shaped like a ship. The handle had been formed out of an anchor. Those choices had not been randomly made, though what sort of message they foreshadowed, Chen couldn’t begin to guess.

“Sister Yalia, there is a ship in the bay. It is stable. What is it that makes it so?”

Chen carefully drew one ladle of hot water from the pot and noiselessly replaced the lid so he’d not distract her while she thought. He poured the water into the teapot, then gently teased powdered green tea from the caddy. Red birds and fishes had been painted on a black background on the caddy’s lid, and a band of symbols running round the middle represented each of Pandaria’s districts.

Yalia looked up, her voice as soft as the first petals of a cherry tree’s blossoms. “I would say, Lord, that it is water that makes the ship stable. It is the ship’s foundation. It is the ship’s very reason for being. Without water, without an ocean, there would be no ship.”

“Very good, Sister. So you would say that water is of Tushui—to use the term common on Shen-zin Su—the foundation, the meditation and contemplation. As you say, without water, there is no reason for the ship to exist.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Chen watched her face but saw no sign of her seeking approval. He couldn’t have done that. He’d want to know if he was right. But Yalia, it occurred to him, already knew she was right. Lord Taran Zhu had asked her opinion; therefore her answer couldn’t be wrong.

With the tip of his tongue just barely visible at the corner of his mouth, Chen applied the whisk to the water and tea within the pot. He did so vigorously, but also gently. The object was not to smash the tea into the water but to mix it all thoroughly. He had to clear the sides, pulling everything to the middle, and then work it out again. He worked briskly, turning the two disparate elements into a green froth that thickly sloshed in the clay ship’s hold.

Taran Zhu pointed to the teapot. “There are others, of course, who would maintain that the anchor is the source of the ship’s stability. Without the anchor rooting the ship in place, it would be ground against shore by wind and wave. The anchor gouging the bay’s floor is what saves the ship, and without it, the ship would be nothing.”

Yalia bowed her head. “If I may, Lord, then you are saying that the anchor is like Huojin. It is the impulsive, decisive act. It is what stands between the ship and disaster.”

“Very good.” The elder monk looked over as Chen added the last ladle of steaming water and clamped the lid back on the teapot. “Do you understand what we have been discussing, Chen Stormstout?”

Chen nodded, patting the teapot. “All shipshape now.”

“The tea, or your understanding?”

“The tea. Just a couple of minutes.” Chen smiled. “But about the water and the anchor and the ship. I’ve been thinking here.”

“Yes?”

“I would say it’s the crew. Because even if there was an ocean, if there was no crew who wanted to see what was on the other side of that ocean, there would be no ship. And the crew chooses the anchorage and when to sail. So the water is important, and the anchor is important, since they are the start and stop, but it’s the crew who does the discovery.”

Chen, who had been waving his paws through the air to aid in his explanation, stopped. “This was never really about ships, was it?”

“No. Yes.” Taran Zhu closed his eyes for a moment. “Master Stormstout, you have sailed two ships into my harbor. They are at anchor here. But I can have no more ships.”

Chen looked at him. “Okay. Shall I pour?”

“Have you no interest in knowing why I can have no more ships?”

“You are the harbormaster, so you must make those decisions.” Chen poured tea for Taran Zhu, then for Yalia and himself. “Mind, it’s still hot, and best to let the leaves settle to the bottom first.”

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