The Magic Of Krynn by Various

ale.”
    “Shame on you, child.” He was teasing. “The autumn batch is always exciting. Today, a
     shipment of hops from the Plains of Abanasinia will arrive. I'm the only innkeeper around
     who sends far away for rich hops.”
    “You're the only innkeeper around, in Solace.” But she added, “And you'd be the best
     anyway, if there were a thousand.”
    “Now, now.” Otik was pleased. He patted his belly. “It's a labor of love, and the Inn has
     loved me back. Now fetch more water.”
    As if in answer, there came a call from the kitchen. Otik said, “See? The cook has hauled
     up more for you. That should make you happier.”
    “I'm ecstatic. Thank Riga for me.” And she went.
    Otik, carefully not thinking of the long day ahead, went through the necessary
     preparations as though they were ritual. First he cleaned a ladle thoroughly and dried it
     over the fire. While it cooled, he set a tallow candle into another ladle, centered in the
     bowl so as not to drip, and lowered it into the brewing tun, checking the sides for cracks
     and split seams. Ale leaking out was not so damaging as air leaking in. He did the same
     with each of the kegs into which he would pour the fully made wort.
    Finally he put down his candle and lowered the cooled, dry ladle into the spring water and
     sipped, then drank deeply. “Ah.” Forty feet below, near the base of the tree that held and
     shaped the Inn of the Last Home, spring water bubbled through lime rock. Some said the
     lime rock went down many times farther than a man could dig, and the spring channeled
     through it all. Otik was not a traveled man, but he knew in his heart that nowhere in the
     world was there water as sweet and pure as this. Finding hops and malt
    equal to it was difficult. As Tika struggled back with the buckets, she panted, "Otik?
    I've never asked why you named the inn-?“ ”I didn't name it, child. The Inn of the Last
     Home was named
    by-“ ”Why the Last Home?“ ”I've never told you?" He glanced around, taking in every scar in
    the wood, every gouge half-polished out of the age-darkened vallenwood. “When the people
     of Solace built their homes in the trees, they had nowhere left to go. The Cataclysm left
     no choices; starving marauders, crazed homeless folk, were destroying villages and
     stealing everything they could. The folk of Solace knew that if they did not defend
     themselves well, these trees would be their last home.”
    “But they survived. Things returned to normal. They could have moved back to the ground.”
    Otik lifted the barrow-handles. “Follow me.”
    At the pantry he stopped. “The man who built this inn was Krale the Strong. They say he
     could tuck a barrel of ale under his arm and climb up the tree itself, one-handed. For all
     he knew, his inn would be in ruins in a year.” Otik tapped the store-room floor. “You've
     been here a thousand times. Have you ever thought about this floor?”
    Tika shrugged. “It's just stone.” Then it hit her. “A stone floor? But I thought the
     fireplace-”
    “Was the only stonework. So it is. This is a single stone, set in to keep the ale cool,
     forty feet above the ground. Krale made a rope harness and hauled it up himself. Then he
     chopped this chamber out of the living wood, and laid the floor. This was his people's
     last home, and he built it to last forever.”
    Otik stamped the floor. The edges were rounded, where the living wooden walls had flowed
     over the stone, a nail's-breadth a year. “And when the danger was over and the folk of
     Solace could go back to the ground, they didn't. These were their last homes. In all the
     world, no place else can be home for them.” He finished, a little embarrassed at the
     speech. “Or for me. Bring out more water, young lady.”
    As they worked, Tika hummed. She had a sweet, soft voice, and Otik was glad when she
     finally broke into full song. The ballad was a hill tune, melodic and