Excerpt: Bones Remember

Urrel beat his fists against the wall rapidly, keeping time with his own heart, hoping to calm himself. Gradually his heart slowed, and with it the beat of his hands, until he was again relaxed. He shook his hands to ward off the stinging and turned to look around his cell. It was, as cells went, fairly spacious… from the songs he’d heard of prisons. He made a habit of not being imprisoned. He took stock of his surroundings with an eye to judging the songs he’d sung over the years. It had the required single barred window near the ceiling to let in the faintest trace of gloomy light, and the series of grates on the floor to let in the barest trickle of murky water. Urrel sighed and squelched across the cell to the stone bench meant to serve as a bed. No straw had been supplied for his bedding, so he lay back against bare stone. The bench was cool and only slightly damp on his savaged back.
When he woke it was dark.
“All this for a song?” he demanded of the cell.
The door opened; two guards entered and hauled him upright. They did not speak, nor did they allow him time to speak. They carried-dragged him from the cell in silence and propelled him into the guardsmen’s barracks. He was sluiced off with a bucket of cold water by another unspeaking man and his shredded tunic torn from him. A rough but clean tunic was drawn over his lashed body. They seated him on another stone bench and fell to guard positions on either side of him. They waited. Urrel pondered his fate, as he was meant to. The song could not be the reason for his three long days in this prison. It was merely the whisper of a song, the ghost of a song. How could any song bring him to this? But there was nothing else to separate him from any other goliard in the theocrat’s land.
A messenger entered the room, called for him. Again he was not allowed to walk, but was dragged along the halls to the theocrat’s private chambers. His musician’s mind was astonished at the closeness of the prison cell to the theocrat’s rooms, even as the rest of him threatened to shut down in terror. The guards half-carried him in and dropped him on the heavy rug before the theocrat’s chair. A booted foot on his calf kept him from even struggling to rise, had he even wished to do so.
“Urrel.” The tone of voice, smooth and rough at the same time, was painfully familiar to the goliard. “Why will you not sing the song for me?”
“My Heart and Mind,” Urrel said, barely remembering to address the theocrat by his title. “I do not have the song to sing. I search for it in our records, but I have not found it.” With an effort he kept his eyes on the vines woven into the rug’s pattern. “I do not know the song,” he repeated. “My masters say it was never written down, only passed mouth to mouth. And those who knew it are dead.” He clamped his mouth shut carefully, knowing he dared not show his fear and frustration.
“I offer you one last choice then, my goliard.” The theocrat’s voice turned thoughtful. “Find the song, or die.” Urrel saw the shadow of a gesture; the boot was removed from his calf and he was hauled again to his feet. “I will give you two months. If you have not found the song for me by then, you will be killed.” The theocrat’s voice was rough silk, slick, but with a faint burr that caught at the ears. Urrel did not look up at his lord’s face, fearing to see the near madness which had gripped him.