Dawn rose over the capital of the Do kingdom like a slow, deep breath. The pale-stone streets opened in wide fans. Sunlight settled on the dried-fiber rooftops. Under the porticos, carved totems cast sharp shadows. Here, everything seemed placed with care. The Donso say that measure is their secret language.
Djata followed Famory along the great avenue, with Balla by his side. The young jeli carried his ngoni like a feather. At each stop, his fingers plucked three short, bright strings, as if placing invisible seals on each moment.
"You are writing," Djata murmured.
"I am remembering," Balla answered.
"A jeli does not write with ink. He writes with the memory of sound."
"And if the world forgets?" Djata asked."Then I play. And it remembers."
They reached the palace courtyard of the Faama of Do. The outer wall held three carved figures: a leopard in mid-hunt, an eagle frozen in the sky, and a heavy hippopotamus standing like a hill. Three ways to hold your place in the world.
Donso guards opened the tall gate. Cool air replaced the heat outside. The Faama's hall was vast. Sculpted pillars ran to the ceiling. Old hides covered the walls, not as trophies but as stories held still in time. On a low platform, Faama Fodé Bamba listened. He was old, amber-eyed, calm of chest, patient as stone.
Famory bowed, palm to heart, then palm to earth. Djata did the same. Balla placed a copper box on the floor, sealed with a stylized lion.
"By the will of the Faama of Niani," Balla said, his voice clear, "we bring a letter of alliance and gifts of friendship. The Mandé is a memory. Niani asks Do to help keep it alive."
An officer opened the box. Inside lay a seal, a thin torque, a ceremonial blade, and incense.
The Faama watched Djata for a long moment. "The son of Niani enters Do. Is it to learn or to observe?"
"To learn," Djata replied.
The Faama nodded. "Those who come to learn leave their weapons at the door. Those who come to observe hide them in their hearts. The Grey-Eyed Hunter will answer better than I."
Famory's grey eyes flashed. "I see traces in his Nyama, Faama. A shame tied to an old anger. It searches for a name. But I also see patience beginning to walk. He can learn."
"Good," said the Faama. "Do does not like promises. Do respects proof."
He looked at Balla. "Speak, jeli. What does Niani ask?"
"Three things," Balla answered, tuning his voice to two notes. "A path of training for Djata under a recognized master. The opening of the message route between Niani and Do. And a shared vigilance against the Sosso."
At the single word Sosso, shoulders tightened.The Faama spoke quietly. "Rumors from the north have already reached us. Silent scouts. Fields refusing water. Forges forgetting sparks. Nothing burns. Everything withdraws."
Famory's eyes hardened. "I have seen stones that forgot how to be heavy. And men who forgot how to be angry, until the anger returned twisted."
"Soumaoro Kanté walks through emptiness," said the Faama.
"He does not impose his order. He removes ours."
He stood. Light caught the silver torque around his neck."The alliance is accepted. The path of messages opens. For the training, the Grey-Eyed Hunter will guide the son of Niani. He will learn measure and listening before strength. In Do, we do not hunt to win. We hunt to put things back in their place."
Balla plucked low, low, clear. Memory had been sealed.
They stepped outside. The city awakened. Markets opened. Balafons answered the drums. Children ran under the colonnades with training spears. Do moved without useless noise, like a beast sure of its muscles.
"Today, you will learn what a Totem is," Famory said as he led them toward the upper district. At his hip, Djata noticed Famory's staff-blade. The name already whispered in the corridors. Sani-ko.
They passed under a carved portico where a leopard held a geometric sun. The path opened into a paved courtyard leading to a low hall. The House of the Banks. On the floor, circular patterns surrounded three pedestals. At the back, a recess held a soft glow.
"Nyama is a river," Famory said. "A Totem is the riverbank you build inside yourself so the river does not sweep you away. Without a bank, the river destroys. Without a river, the bank is just a dry ditch."
Balla plucked a bright note. The walls kept it like a whispered word.
"There are three kinds of Totems you must know."Famory placed a hand on the first pedestal. A small ivory lion mask rested on it."The animal Totem. It is a protective spirit that answers your way of being. It is not a pet. It is a stance in the world that accepts you. Ignore it, and it stays silent. Listen, and it resembles you more than your own face."
He touched the second pedestal. A bronze shell engraved with fine lines."The ancestral Totem. The strength of your lineage. The words, the gestures, the oaths that gave you birth. The wise use it without becoming its prisoner."
His fingers brushed the third pedestal. A dark leather sheath, closed with a thin gold string."And finally, the weapon Totem. A material shaped by the fire of the Numu, bound to a pact. It is not a tool. It is an agreement. If your heart lies, it betrays you. If your heart holds, it reminds you when you falter."
Djata stared at the sheath. A soft heat pulsed from it, like a muted growl.
Famory's voice dropped. "Long ago, a Numu bound his soul to fire. Babemba. The Forger-King. It is said he forged Totem weapons that can awaken and choose their bearer. Some say he sealed a beast born from raw Nyama inside his Origin Forge to prevent the Mandé from falling into chaos. Then… he disappeared."
Balla stopped playing. Only the distant life of the city echoed.
"Before vanishing," Famory continued, "Babemba scattered his weapons. Some sleep beneath stones. Others hide in sanctuaries. Others rest in hands that do not know what they carry. You do not own these blades. You join them. And they demand a price."
Famory untied the gold string. The sheath opened silently.A thin blade appeared. Black, not shining but absorbing light, crossed with faint golden lines that moved only when the light shifted.
"Vespera," Famory whispered. "She judges more than she cuts. Call her to crush, and she will weigh down your hand. Call her to restore, and she will lighten your fault."
Balla plucked three descending notes. He repeated the name softly.
"May I?" Djata asked."Place your palm on the guard. Expect nothing. Offer."
At the touch, the metal warmed, then heated. Not a burn. A recognition.Golden lines pulsed. A vibration rose from the guard, passed through his arm, spread across his chest, then down to his injured leg. The pain did not disappear. It settled.
Djata did not see. He sensed.A lion walked across a plain of shadows. At each step, pale ashes rose, forming paths without ever staining its mane.
He withdrew his hand. Vespera stayed still, as if nothing had happened.
"She looked at you," Famory said. "That is already a lot."
"Why me?" Djata asked.
"Because you offered," Famory answered. His grey eyes shone. "And because something in you refuses to believe that strength decides everything."