Chapter 30
Sanctuary in Tichiit
The gates of Tichiit rise pale and secretive against the new sun, narrow streets curling inward as if the town itself wants to swallow its mysteries. I arrive in Karim’s company, dust clinging to my cuffs and a hard new caution sitting in my bones. It is early, yet shadows move briskly — every gesture of the staff precise, rehearsed, wordless.
The guesthouse waits at the end of an alley washed blue with morning. Unlike the riot of compounds I have known in other cities, this place betrays nothing to the outside world. Courtyards rise behind high walls; doors hang heavy, the wood darkened by centuries, sealed against intrusion. Karim gives me a nod that feels half reassurance, half command, pausing only long enough to murmur to the head attendant. A thick envelope passes between them — more meaning than sound.
I am shown upstairs and left in a private suite. The shutters are already drawn against the sun and the suspicion of being seen. I sink into crisp linen and listen to the hush — the silence of a room designed for vanishing.
A soft knock. A woman in a physician’s coat enters, eyes sharp, her kindness tucked just below the surface but audible in her voice.
“Madame Elena? I am Dr Fadila. Let me see to your wounds.”
Her examination is careful, thorough — hands moving with the knowledge that danger comes as easily from neglect as from cruelty. She dabs the bruise at my collarbone, arranges tinctures and bandages with quiet precision, and leaves a vial on the bedside table.
“You are safe here.” Her calm is smooth, command woven through it — gentle and undeniable. “Someone will be at your door, but you will see them only if you call. Rest. And eat.”
She leaves. Silence uncoils around me again.
I am almost under when a gentler knock pulls me back.
He enters quietly: the Marabout, robed in indigo, hair and beard flecked with sand. He brings little: a palm mat, a few leather amulets, a flask of water that smells faintly of rose.
He kneels beside me, humming low, and places the talismans in a small circle around the bed. His gaze is steady, neither distant nor awestruck — the look of a man who has known me through many silences I haven’t yet lived.
“You have crossed through fire,” he says softly, rolling the r’s like thunder deep in the earth. “Those who mean you harm will turn against shadow and salt. The spirits are restless tonight. You must not carry their weight alone.”
He traces symbols in the air above me, his words moving like wind. The room eases, its edges softening into something that feels almost like hope.
“Rest, ancient mother of all daughters,” he murmurs. “Do not fear the dreaming.”
I watch him finish, the echo still breathing in the air between us, and hear myself speak before I’ve decided to.
“Do you know someone who could shield me? Not just walls and guards — a proper shield. Magic that keeps out whatever is hunting me.”
The Marabout smiles, slow and unhurried. “You already carry the strongest shield a mother could wish for.”
I frown. “What shield?”
His gaze moves to my belly, voice dropping as if woven through with spellwork. “The two children within you, daughter. Nothing stronger exists. They guard you — not like any talisman or spell, but with every breath you take. The spirits see the life you carry and turn their wrath aside.”
The words hang over me — unexpected, unwanted, and strangely calming. Exposed and guarded at once. Vulnerable and encircled.
He sweeps his hand gently above me, tracing shapes in the air. “Trust this shield, even when you fear. The magic within you is greater than anything I could summon.”
I almost laugh. Magic greater than a professional Marabout’s? With my luck, it runs on chaos and contradiction.
Outside, the guesthouse ticks with the machinery of Tarmo’s intent. I feel it — not as the oppressive press of paranoia but as an intricate net of care, the kind only the powerful know how to weave. Staff move silently through corridors; kitchen smells curl beneath my locked door. A new sheet will appear on my bed tomorrow. Guards whose faces I’ll never see. Coins slipping quietly across palms to purchase my anonymity.
I accept this invisible choreography. If I listen closely, I can almost trace his orders — small earthquakes moving through Tichii’s deep, secret soil: a nod to the police chief here, a warning to the market gossips there, quiet instructions to discourage any foreign face that lingers too long on my name.
For the first time in days, I let myself close my eyes.
I’m not naive — I know I’m protected because I am important, or dangerous, or both. But tonight I claim the sanctuary. The white walls, the doctor’s cool hands, the Marabout’s prayers, the quiet empire of Tarmo’s favours — they close around me not as a cage but as a fortress.
As I drift toward sleep, the harshness of the journey behind me grows less jagged. The dangers ahead fall silent beyond the walls. Here in Tichii, for now, I am simply a woman being cared for — a traveller who, for one breath, can lay down the burden of story.
Although being kidnapped for the fourth time, and this time with two magical babies in the belly, but hey, who’s counting?
I.Ph.
The C.O.M.C. Files 