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her from Aleister. On that night, when the vision took Thomas and he proclaimed Wizard Xan’thorne was living as a healer, he begged her to seek Max out. She was the only person he trusted. How could she say no?
    Falon came out of her thoughts abruptly when she realized Max held the door of his home open for her. Thanking him, she stepped through. It was a simple home, orderly and well kept. The moderately-sized main room had a table to one side, designating the dining area, and a stone fireplace with two inviting chairs and a rug to make up the living area. Through the double-faced fireplace, she glimpsed his bedchamber. It felt cozy to her.
    Shelves of books, vials of potions holding liquids of various colors and leather pouches no doubt containing powders and herbs spoke of his trade. Several crucibles lay on the table as did some opened containers.
    Falon turned to thank Max for helping her but he grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall, knocking the wind out of her lungs. The shock in her eyes met the deadly glare in his.
    “Who sent you?” he growled, low and threatening. She felt the all too familiar tingle of magic coursing through his hand, deadly power waiting to be released. The wrong answer, or the right one for that matter, might be her last. She had only one choice, as much as she abhorred it. She grabbed his wrist tight, making no move to escape. The touch was enough to tell him his mistake.
    Max jumped back as if burned. “Typical,” he said, rubbing his wrist. “They would send one of your kind. But I’m surprised they sent the queen’s own blood. Should I be flattered?”
    “I mean you no harm,” she said. How did he know who she was? “I came to ask for your help.”
    “No thank you,” his replied coldly.
    “Please, you must.” She took a step toward him and invisible cords pinned her against the wall. “Shaladon has fallen,” she blurted.
    “Old news. It was tearing itself apart when I left. I suppose it’s only fitting Cintaur moved in and took over.”
    “You don’t understand. Cintaur has fallen too. Both countries are controlled by one man.”
    His glare faltered, the cords slackened. “Both have fallen? How? By whom?”
    Ice still clung to his words, but she had cracked his defenses. He would listen. “There’s much we need to talk about.”
    He glanced at his wrist then back at her. “You expect me to trust you?”
    “We do not get to choose the gifts we are born with. It’s what we do with them that matters.”
    Max snorted derisively, but he knew it to be true. She could see it in his eyes. Reluctantly he released the cords binding her and motioned to a chair near the fireplace. “Have a seat.”
    Her hand went to her neck, her eyes never leaving his. “Thank you,” she said. The reality of how close she had come to oblivion rushed into her mind like a flood, washing away her nerve. She had been clear-headed during the confrontation, instinct driving her reaction, but now her mind lay clouded. The fate of two countries weighed on her shoulders, and she was uncertain where to start.
    “You’re Xavier Maximillian Xan’thorne, the First Wizard of Shaladon?”
    “In the flesh,” he said wryly with a bow.
    A weak start. She deserved a little mockery for such an unnecessary question, but at least he was no longer ready to kill her.
    “I need your help.” Falon realized she had already stated as much the moment the words left her lips. She gritted her teeth in frustration. During her journey, she had played this meeting over and over in her head, envisioning how it would go, yet the tapestry of events she needed to tell now lay in an unraveled heap in her mind.
    “You said Cintaur has fallen. To whom?”
    “Yes. Aleister, the man...I came to...the seer sent me and I ...,” she fell silent unable to form a congruent thought. She placed her head in her hands trying to concentrate.
    “There’s so much that’s happened since you left and for the