Page 52 - North Star Magazine 2022

“Blink, somebody is approaching the house. You need to hide. Now!” His tone was stern and solemn. The color drained from the small bird as he listened. He knew this was no jest. Blink flew to a corner of the house and hid in the shadows, his little eyes filled with fear.
“If you need a distraction to escape I can provide one. Just say the word,” Blink spoke directly into the mind of the old man. Blink and Rilos had a spiritual connection, and could communicate through this connection alone, should they desire.
“Aye now shut up, I can’t talk to them and talk to you,” The old man responded.
He arose. His bones popped. The upward motion was complemented by a symphony of crackling ranging from the low pitched snaps in his knees, to the popping triplets coming from his wrists. His hobble was corrected by his staff. Walking was the only action the staff received these days and probably the only action it would receive until his dying day.
The life of a sorcerer is not nearly as lucrative as it used to be, he thought to himself.
It was customary for a sorcerer to be burned with his staff once they had perished. The Shanti2 wood from which it was made would burn black with a flame so hot it could melt iron. This was a fate he would not meet. The staff and the small fractured crystal were reminders of his past life, and the second thing that got him out of bed in the morning. They were timeless items, ones that would outlive him for thousands of years. Yet another small irony he found in his life; priceless items in the possession of a worthless man.
“Um, were you speaking to me or was that more of an internalized thought? I’m still listening in case you need me so I would appreciate you keeping those ‘lucrative’ thoughts to a minimum,” Blink responded.
“Blink, you can’t enter a man’s head without his consent and then complain when you hear his inner thoughts,” the old man thought in a condescending tone.
His aged fingers slipped into the indentation his hand made around the carved wooden head of the staff. With each step, he propelled himself from the staff, struggling forward. The floorboards screamed and flexed as they bore the weight. He reached the front door where he glanced at his reflection in a mirror. The glass was shattered, yet held together, clinging to the frame of its border. The man