The scene had seemed to shift, right before Xavier's eyes after the voice had faded. The sounds of the street returned, and what people were around had stopped their nightly routines to look at the silly foriegner standing in a doorway brandishing a cane in terror. Madmen in these streets was nothing new really, so when he seemed to come to, they shrugged and minded their own business.

He caught a taxi back to his hotel, still shaking from the experience. It had been so real. But it wasn't. Was it? He began to wonder if he had lost his mind. By the time he exited the cab and paid it's driver, he had decided it didn't matter if he was insane or not, he was going to Zonavi in the morning. When he arrived at his room he didn't turn the lights on till the curtains were drawn, and he stayed off the balcony that had been a pleasant place to spend quiet time since his arrival in Dubai. He didn't think such mundane details would make a difference, if he was in danger, but thats what they did in the stories when they were hunted, and it seemed reasonable.

 He began to work at what had happened, in his mind, as he poured himself a scotch. He had not been much for alcohol, but since his confrontation with Stagger and Connie Castillo, he had begun to appreciate its medicinal value.

 The illusion had to have been something only he could see, from the way the other people on the street had reacted. Targeted at him. But there were lots of questions. Firtsly, how had it known he was here, and what he was seeking. He wasn't even sure himself. That's not all it knew. He thought, as the first drops of whiskey burned the back of his tongue and throat. It called me Westerner, and Professor. This was no demon, it was a man from the middle east, who seeks to dissuade me.

 He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Wandering into the sitting area of his suite, he continued to think. Who knew I was headed here, and why? Larry Wintherbotham. Larry had to have told someone, unwittingly. But who learned it from Larry? He mulled that question over, as he finished his scotch. His feet propped up on a coffee table as the depressant took effect, and he drifted off to sleep.

 The next morning had come early though he wasn't hungover, he was tired. Traveling did that to him. The short plane ride into southern Iraq was bumpy and hair raising. The pilot made his living flying a few feet over the dunes, and passenger comfort wasn't on his list of priorities.

 As he watched the man take off through the dust storm of its propellers wake, He lifted his bag, and made his way into the village of Zonavi. He had thought that the fortress in Germany was ancient. But this place felt far older, to him. Not the buildings, themselves. Their mud brick construction could have been erected and destroyed, hundreds of times, dozens of hundreds, from the feel.

 The locals knew of course that he was a foreigner, likely an american, but he spoke the language like a native, picking up the nuances of the local dialect quickly. He was courteous, and observed the customs of the locals learning quickly. In a small tobacco bar in the center of Zonavi, he rented a room and smoked with the locals. When he told them he was there looking for ruins, or old books, they all seemed to glance at one another uncomfortably, or laugh a bit too loudly and tell him there was “nothing of the sort around here.”

 He offered to pay, if someone would help him find what he sought, but that only brought a more genuine laughter. He was welcome to look of course. His money spent easily, and he seemed a decent sort. So he spent a few days wandering the streets of the village, buying things, and asking the sellers questions, the nights he would spend in the bar, smoking and encouraging the elders to tell stories of their ancestors. Living oral traditions were a goldmine of information at times, whether or not the tellers knew it.

 This was how he learned that Farhid Aidid was still remembered here. He was a Vizier, considered to be more than he really was, like Merlin to the English. But that was enough for the Professor, enough to know that he was in the right spot. A man with the power this Aidid had, would have safeguarded its sources. Those sources were still here, under his feet.

 After a week, he was beginning to despair. He had begun walking around the sands near Zonavi randomly looking for a marker, an obelisk, anything. But he had found nothing. He was nearly ready to give up the search after the second week. The locals were polite, if somewhat guarded, until the tragedy. Or, more precisely, near tragedy.

 An unexploded mine, leftover from some war, had been uncovered by the winds enough to be set off by the weight of a little girl. The explosion was loud enough to draw the attention of the whole town and by the time Xavier had hobbled to the scene the girl hung near death. Two hours to a hospital and no doctor, the girl was going to bleed out.

 “I can help.” He said in Farsi to those in front of him, convincing the crowd of villagers to let him forward. When he finally saw what the mine had done to the girl, he nearly wretched. A canister had shot up out of the sands and exploded into 1,712 ball bearings. The only thing that had kept her from dying instantly was that the mine had been designed to explode deeper in the soil and the soil had settled, the canister flew at an angle, and much further than intended..

 Her body was wrecked, though her eyes fought for life. Her parents and sisters were weeping. All he could say was, “I can try to help.” given the situation, the father objected to the idea of an infidel touching his daughter, but the girls mother, over ruled him, and made way for him to kneel over gurgling chest.

Xavier had been dressed in the long robes and turban of the locals and now he regretted it, his hands wouldn't emerge from the sleeves, but there was no worrying over it now. He grabbed the girls' ribcage in his hands, and held on tightly as the words he had learned from Armicus' scroll flowed and slid like quicksilver over his tongue, he verbally steered the magic to make the girls body right. It was exhausting, and tedious. To him it seemed to take hours, though those present thought it seemed faster like a wave of light washing over the girl, then back. The spell had worked, and worked well. Little steel balls rolled out of closing wounds, and dropped to be swallowed by the sands.

 The girl gasped and spat the blood that had already been in her mouth, and she began to cry. She had felt no pain, not really. Andorphines, and shock had numbed her. Now the pain was suddenly gone, the andorphines remained, and she wept for her life. Her mother stood, aghast at what had happened but unsure how to react for a moment. She rushed to her daughter, and held her closely to her chest while they both wept.

 The little girls father expressed his gratitude, but did so guardedly, plainly unsure how to reconcile what had just saved his daughter with powers his society and religion declared to be blasphemous. Exhausted, Xavier pushed is glasses up onto the bridge of his nose, accepted the thanks of the parents, and made his way through the crowd.

As he made his way back to the tobacco bar and his room, a little old man stepped out of a doorway and smiled a one tooth smile at him from behind thin white beard.

 “Come.” He said. “You take tea with me.”

 “Thank you, but I must change.” Xavier said, motioning to the blood on his robes.

 The old man waved off the blood, and responded, “Yes, you must. You take tea with me.”

 To the end of his days, Xavier Relaford could not say exactly why he followed the old man into his hovel.