Very intriguing little flash fiction!
“Hand me that tibia, boy.”
Egan held up a long, slim bone from the pile. “This one, Vox?”
The old man frowned. “No, the thicker one.” Egan quickly found
it and brought it over.
He watched as his master mumbled over the shinbone until it
began to emit a soft glow; one wrinkled hand caressed its contours as the other
picked up a stylus and began to write. This part of the process still awed him,
a full year into his apprenticeship.
Egan turned back to his sorting, but the Vox had other ideas.
“Boy, tell me about this one,” he said in a tone that Egan
knew well: an impromptu test.
He started to approach the workbench, but the old man
stopped him. “From there, if you please. You must learn to listen from a
Egan swallowed hard. The tibia was old; its shade’s voice would
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