“What do I have to do?”
The Brewmistress raised the cup of beer she held to her lips and blew across it. Her breath had magic in it, smelling like wet clay and green ferns and just a little whiff of honey. “Drink this, and think of yourself the way you should be.”
Saeldian had to be careful not to slosh beer out of the cup, but they drank. They had to force their eyebrows back down when the taste unfolded over their tongue.
Round with malt. Rye, and a whisper of juniper, and something green and bright—spring fiddleheads. Sweetness—light and soft from nectar flowers, after the darkened birch syrup gave way. If a beer were a forest, it would taste like this. If a beer werethisforest, it would taste like this—this was the Village That Chooses Its Own, and the beer was brewed by the green hag who ruled it.
They itched everywhere. Their scalp ached. Everything under their skin felt like ice and fire, but they drank swallow after swallow until it was gone.
When they gasped for air, the itching stopped. The warm glow of a strong ale filled Saeldian’s limbs, and off in the clearing before Lorzok, an oak sapling grew. It rose out of the ground, trembling with the speed of growing tall and coltish, an adolescent tree that budded into full green leaves and branches that stood taller than Lorzok when he rose to his feet.
“That’s one,” he said, and stopped, gazing at Saeldian for a thoughtful moment. “You’re you again.”
“I am?”
The Brewmistress took the cup from Saeldian’s hand. “It’s done. You look just like you did when you first walked in here. Less sulky, though. How does the shifting feel? Try it.”
Try it?
Saeldian’s skin didn’t itch quite so much, but they could feel it when they changed to the flamboyant, fatal beauty of Helarel Brightleaf. They opened their eyes.
“You looked like that at the party,” Lorzok said.
Saeldian looked down at the smooth brown hands they’d designed for Helarel. “I can still change?”
Lorzok grinned as wide as his face would allow, matching the Brewmistress’s own wide smile. “As much as you like. I said your true form, didn’t I? Now it’s fixed. Now you’re happy.”
“I am.” Saeldian closed their eyes and slipped back to their usual self. “Thank you.”
The Brewmistress cackled. “Just couldn’t take something for nothing, could you?”
“I’m still learning.”
“A favor from a paladin might be handy. Lorzok, you need this.” The Brewmistress poured Lorzok a cup of beer.
Lorzok accepted it with a nod.
“So. An empire begins,” the Brewmistress said, raising her cup in a toast. “How is the brew, Lorzok the Seeker?”
“It tastes like home,” Lorzok replied, and he tilted his head. “And I think I’m Lorzok Oak-Strider now.”
Beyond them, the oak’s trunk grew thicker than a man’s shoulders.
“A fine name. When will you leave us?” the Brewmistress asked.
“Not until after my friends return to Waterdeep.”
“And when will you return?”
“After I’ve planted the next one,” Lorzok said. “You’re right to suggest I plant them in good places for a Tree Stride spell back to here. I may as well test them and be back in time for dinner and a dream in my own bed.”
“And your turn at the dishes,” the Brewmistress said. “Saeldian.”
Saeldian turned to the Brewmistress. She had something to tellthem? “Yes, Mistress.”
“When you make it back to the Feywild, remember how that brew tasted. It’ll bring you back here for another.”
Saeldian had to say something polite, and they could not cry. “I know I will dream of the next time I will drink that beer, Mistress. But I’ve a lot to do before I can return.”
