The rope bridge was a thing of terror, but I managed to crawl up it on all fours, keeping at least three points of contact at all time.

Romero didn’t help, laughing the entire way.

“It’s not funny, ya sunnovanannygoat!” I grumbled as I finally crawled into the cabin. “Some of us die if we fall outta trees!”

Romero wiped a tear from his eye.

“I must beg that I cannot help it!” Romero laughed. “It’s my first time having a dwarf through the winery, and I admit I did not take your phobias into account when designing this place!”

“Friggin’ discrimination is what it is,” I growled.

This next cabin was very much like the first, with a few small differences. This room was largely filled with barrels. Lots and lots and lots of covered barrels. They were stacked up along all the walls with pipes leading to and fro. But the biggest chance was that part of the tree actually went through this room, with branches leafing off to nearly every barrel. It looked like a horror show to keep clean, but was as sparkling as the rest of the place.

“You love ‘yer pipes, eh?” I asked, flexing an arm and giving Romero a wink. “I love mine too.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Romero gave me some time to look everything over before we chatted some more. It took some effort for me to navigate between the crisscrossing branches, and I kept up a consistent litany of swearing as I kept bumping my head. The barrels were more of that deep dark wood, and I had to ask, “What kind of wood is it? I’m assumin’ that this type worked tha’ best fer a couple reasons?”

“Of course. The essence of the wood seeps into the wine when aged within for long periods. Did you not do the same?”

“Aye. Oak barrels were a favourite. Chestnut and acacia as well. Sometimes we’d take barrels that’d been used fer other alcohols for long periods and then use ‘em fer wine making.”

Even in industrial wine companies, they still used wooden barrels to get the balance just right. Aging in wood introduced unique tannins to the wine, providing another level to the body called tertiary aromas. The primary aromas being from the grapes themselves, and the secondary aromas from the initial fermentation. I was a personal fan of the faintly vanilla-y aromas from oak barrels, but one of our neighbouring Chateaus had always sworn by the nutty aftertaste of chestnut. Caroline always claimed she couldn’t tell the difference.

Philistine.

“Do ya’ need to top ‘em up often?” I asked, knocking on the top of a nearby barrel. It made a faintly hollow sound. “Or do you do somethin’ different fer the headspace?”

“Headspace?” He asked, curiously.

“It’s what we called tha space between the wine and the top of the cask. It’s almost impossible to eliminate, and the oxygen within can cause undesirable oxidation.”

Romero pulled on one of his ears. “Ah, yes. ‘Twas a pretty problem. I spent a good hundred years on it. Over the course of maturation, I found the amount of headspace would increase due to wine seeping into the cask and some minor evaporation. I finally designed a spell that replaced the air with an inert gas to deal with it.”

“We did somethin’ similar in my world, by piping nitrogen or carbon dioxide into tha headspace.” I grinned. “Here I have a nearly identical set of spells. They called me crazy.”

“Hah! The best often are!”

“Another technique we used was somethin’ called top-up, or ouillage. We’d add more wine to the barrel every once in a while to reduce the amount of headspace. Do you do that too?”

Romero shook his head. “Not very often. In the early years I used oak, which allowed for a bit too much evaporation, then acacia from the south. But after many years of experimentation I landed on Blackwoad. It’s native to Greentree, actually, from the Darkwood. It barely requires any top up at all.”

I snapped my fingers. “I have some! From back when I was experimentin’ with adjuncts! Heck, I can probably get a supplier. Did you try any other woods in particular?”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Romero nodded. “Yes. Fireash was another excellent wood for holding liquids, but it added too much spice to the wine. Yarrowbloom was another favourite, but couldn’t hold up for the maturation times I required.”

I recognized Fireash, but Yarrowbloom was new. Probably another dungeon plant. I gestured at the barrels. “How long do ya’ age ‘em? A couple years?

Romero shook his head. “No, the wine ages for around a century.”

My eyebrows hit my forehead. “A century! Whew! I’ve only ever matured the wine fer two years at the most.”

In fact, it was a common misconception about wine. Barrel maturation was usually six months to a year, and most wines were good to drink for a year after bottling. Only a few reds required more than five years of aging in the bottle. Wine made of Nebbiolo grapes was often aged the longest, up to nearly 20 years, but that was rare.

Didn't stop u

“With Spirit Grapes it takes at least that much time for the Mana to properly seep out, while also allowing for proper maturation. I have to use [Stabilize Mixture] on it every few months, though. It would be impossible to make without that Ability.” He gave me a sad shrug, as though to say I was out of luck.

Except I had [Stabilize Mixture]. Heck, I had access to most of the tools he was using thus far. I felt a chill of excitement. I might actually be able to take a crack at making elven wine!

I licked my lips before talking again, trying to keep my tone level. “Do you, ah, do ya add anythin’ during maturation? To change the acids?”

Wine contained a very sharp acid called Malic acid. It was the same type of acid found in green apples, and most people found it overly tart and irritating to the palette in wine. Certain kinds of bacteria were capable of eating the Malic acid and converting it to Lactic acid – the same acid found in cream and milk. The process was called Malolactic Fermentation, and it was primarily used in red wines to give thema smoother body.

Some wineries used special vessels for Malolactic Fermentation, while others did it straight in the maturation barrels. I’d noticed the telltale creamy body of lactic acid in his wine, and wanted to know how he was doing it.

Romero laughed. “You even know that! Yes, I have a specially formulated mix that I add to the barrels. It reduces the tartness of the initial wine, and adds a creamy mouthfeel.”

I put on my best puppy dog eyes. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to share some?”

“For you? Certainly!”

I pulled at my beard in satisfaction. Excellent! In olden times, having the correct bacteria for Malolactic Fermentation was mostly luck and part of the local character of a wine, but in the modern era we were just able to force it through inoculation with bred bacteria. If he already had that isolated, it was a massive time saver for me.

“So, when do ya know when it’s done? A specific time, or what? Can I try some?” I usually went by taste, depending on the type of wine. For example, with my more refined reds I waited until the fruity tones were gone, which usually took around seven months.

Romero gestured broadly through the room. “Isabella tells me. She’s got the most experience of all my students. She keeps tabs on this room constantly, and can taste even the most minute of changes in the wine.”

“So how does she know?”

Romero smiled. “Do you recall that I mentioned you’d be meeting an old elf?” He gestured over at the tree branch jutting through the floor. “Meet Isabella. She rooted and kindly provided herself as the foundation for this new Winery. She retains enough of herself still to talk, though I had to take a Specialization to speak with plants. Her leaves are sensitive enough to pick up when the wine is ready for racking.”

At which point the tree groaned, the cabin we were in shifted, and I screamed and fainted.

—

I awoke to the feeling of wind on my face. I blinked my eyes blearily, then tamped down a surge of panic.

“Sorry about that, Master Roughtuff,” Romero said, looking at me worriedly. He was sitting beside me, fanning me with his hand.

“Ugh. This place needs ta be labeled as a hazard ta dwarves. Old elves turn into trees??” I groaned, sitting upright. “Gods, I really need that biology lesson. But I just don’t have any time.”

I imagined my brother, axe in hand, happily taking an axe to a tree. If an elf was felled in the forest, would anyone hear it scream?

I shivered. “Are there many like her?”

“Goodness, no. Most die to fire or get hit by lightning long before they root. And even then, few have the Specializations or strength of Spirit to remain. They root, then die, their Spirits ascending to the gods to be born again.” Romero shrugged. “Those few who still retain consciousness describe it as feeling very, very, tired, but not in a bad way. And don’t worry, she is pretty much immobile; she won’t drop you. But the strength of a rooted elftree is beyond any other plant.”

Realization dawned. “The [Mother Tree]! She’s a rooted elf!”

Romero nodded. “Indeed. She’s hidden somewhere in the center of the palace. I understand that she often chooses the King based on who talks to her the most. I suspect she’s lonely.” Romero smiled the sad smile of someone who could relate.

I slowly tottered to my feet. “So long as she promises not to do that again. Where were we?”

“I think it’s time for the last stop on our tour.” Romero pointed at another door. “Shall we?”

I closed my eyes and held onto the floor for dear life.

“Let’s… give it a minute.”

Was there an anti-acrophobia Ability? Maybe if I asked the Gods really nicely, they’d give it to me.