“I only know one story. But oftentimes small pieces seem to be stories themselves.” He took a drink. “It’s growing all around us. In the manor houses of the Cealdim and in the workshops of the Cealdar, over the Stormwal in the great sand sea. In the low stone houses of the Adem, full of silent conversation. And sometimes . . .” He smiled. “Sometimes the story is growing in squalid backstreet bars, Dockside in Tarbean.” His bright eyes looked deep into me, as if I were a book that he could read.
