A distant horn echoed. Famory closed the case. "The Faama calls us."
In the decision hall, Faama Fodé stood tall. A Donso officer spoke quickly. Northern border. Fields fading without drought. No fire. Masks left at the foot of trees, carved from blackened bone, streaked with red thread.
Famory answered briefly. "They mark the land the way one marks an animal. They want us to see."
The Faama placed both hands on the back of his seat. "We will not answer with haste. Do is not a bull. Do is a leopard. We move without noise. We watch for a long time." His eyes rested on Djata. "And you, son of Niani, you will learn faster than expected."
"I am ready," said Djata."Not yet," Famory replied. "But you are coming."
The Faama allowed a short smile. "The Mandé needs those who illuminate without burning. Go. Let your steps weigh true."
The day dimmed. Famory led Djata and Balla outside the walls, toward a stretch of fine grasslands. The sky was turning the color of copper. The hunter planted a short staff decorated with strands, like a small Donso banner.
"First lesson. Listen until the world hears you. Children want to see to believe. Donso believe to see."
Balla stood at a distance. His ngoni unfolded a discreet pattern. Three slow notes. A pause. Two connected notes. It was his signature of memory. The wind shifted, as if to follow the motif.
"Close your eyes, Djata. Do not tense. Do not search for Nyama the way one searches for a secret. Let it pass. Today, you will hold nothing. You will learn to let it move through you without losing yourself."
At first, there were only ordinary sounds. Air. Grass. A wing far away. Then, as he stopped trying to grasp anything, something changed. The steps of the world sounded sharper, not because they weighed more, but because Djata weighed less. A thread brushed his heels, rose, and opened inside his chest like a hand unclenching.
"There," whispered Famory.
A shadow appeared at the edge of the field. Not a full beast. Not a man. More like a hollow with borders. It slid forward. The grass did not sway at its passage. It simply stopped being grass for an instant, then returned pale and thin.
"Do not strike what you do not understand," said Famory.
The shadow turned. It took the shape of a thin dog, hairless. Two empty eyes looked at Djata.
Djata's heart tightened. He breathed long, as Sogolon had taught him. He opened his hands, palms forward.
"No attack," said Famory. "Call the world back."Balla played two higher notes.
The shadow trembled. The thread inside Djata pulled taut. The impulse rose from his feet to his neck, then flowed back down. He stepped forward half a pace, without trying to dominate. His injured leg protested. He let it protest. The protest settled.
"Speak where anger would speak," said Famory."Return," said Djata. It was not to the shadow. It was to the Nyama he was missing.
The void-dog hesitated, folded into itself like a skin, then dissolved. The air became, again, dense. The grass recovered its color.
Djata trembled. Not from fear. From the new kind of exhaustion that comes with doing what is just.
Famory placed a hand on his shoulder. "You did not win. You restored."
"That was the Sosso?"
"That was an effect of the Sosso. An absence they sow. They learn to remove. We learn to replace."
He drove the staff into the ground. "Etch this into your hand. The first Donso was not a killer. He was a bringer-back."
Balla shifted the rhythm to carve the lesson into memory. The wind seemed to approve.
Night settled over the plain. They returned toward the gates. Above the palisades, a deep horn sounded. It was not an alarm. In Do, vigilance is a rhythm, not a startle.
In their shelter, a low fire breathed. Famory placed Vespera's case within sight, out of reach. Balla sat cross-legged and let a few notes wander, neither joyful nor sad.
"Master," asked Djata, "how will I know if Vespera wants me?"
"When you no longer need her to prove yourself," Famory answered. After a silence, he added, "The totem weapons I told you about. Babemba's creations. They still exist. Scattered across the Mandé. Some sleep beneath cities. Some lie in hands that do not understand what they hold. Others wait for someone who can speak to them. Many search. A few find. More than one is lost. Remember this. A Totem weapon does not belong to you. Those of Babemba, even less."
"Will we ever find them?"Famory's gray eyes drifted into the flame. "The Mandé is vast. But the Nyama remembers. When the time comes, the paths will appear. You will only need to walk straight."
Balla played very softly, with that ancient tone that carries wisdom without naming its source. "They say a king is a river. He does not speak louder than the sea. He remembers the rains." He tilted his head toward Djata. "Learn the rains. The rest will come."
The fire crackled. The smell of warm earth rose with a discreet incense. Outside, the city settled for the night. Slow heartbeats. Tasks continuing without witnesses.
Djata stayed awake longer. His mind was steady. He thought of Niani, of Sogolon, of the training court. He thought of the Faama of Do, of the weapons that remember, of Babemba who had scattered his blades as one scatters roads. He placed his hand on his chest, where Vespera had left its warmth. He breathed.
A thin glow slid along the golden thread of the case. Not a flash. A pulse. Vespera breathed once.
Djata did not reach for it. He simply greeted it. The way one greets a guest one does not wish to rush.
A wind from the north crossed the rooftops. Not a cold. A moving emptiness. At the center of the palace, Faama Fodé remained standing longer than usual. At the edge of the bush, an organized silence shifted.
"The Mandé changes when its children change," Djata thought. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to let the night work.
Far away, too far for drums, a voice no signal had summoned whispered like a blade on stone. "Sing. Learn. Join. Silence knows how to wait."
The blade in its case dimmed.The city fell asleep.The measure of Do kept a truth the dawn would come to claim.