The old man sat in the corner of the tavern, his hands wrapped around a clay mug that sweated with the cold of the winter night, and he watched the firelight dance across the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling, knowing that the thing he held was not gold, but a seed, and that the seed had already begun to rot in the dark soil of his conscience. He was Elias, a man whose name had once been spoken...
English
Arabic
French
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek