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and giant horse Raksh.”
    â€œExactly my thought,” says Bahram.
    Fear rushes to my chest anew. Rustam’s adventures in the Shahnameh are inscribed in my mind, all of them, including his downfall. The colossal Rustam, with the height of eight men standing on one another’sshoulders, made the error of sleeping with a Turan woman. Only once, but once was enough. Many years later, Rustam was in battle against a Turan warrior. He thrust a dagger in the warrior’s chest, and in the moment before the young man died, father and son finally recognized each other.
    â€œLook at me.” The words burst from my mouth on their own. “Oh, Father, look well at me.”
    â€œI am looking, my son.”
    â€œDo you recognize me?”
    â€œOf course.” Father shakes his head in confusion, clearly not thinking of Rustam’s grave flaw, of his tragic destiny.
    â€œRemember who I am tomorrow, Father. Remember tomorrow.”
    â€œI will always know who you are.” Father puts his arms around me and hugs tight, ignoring my wet clothing. He whispers in my ear, “Whether you ever hunt or not, Orasmyn, you are my beloved son.” His voice is gentle.
    I know this. And now I think of Kiyumars, who might be cursed as well, who might also be slated for death at Fathers hand. “Promise me,” I whisper into his ear, “promise that tomorrow you will kill no man — no matter who that man may be.”
    Father leans back just the slightest bit and tilts his head until our foreheads meet. “I have no intention ofkilling anything but the game in the hunting park.”
    â€œNevertheless, promise me. No matter what you may think the man has done. No matter what anyone else says to you. No matter what. You cannot kill a man tomorrow, friend or foe, royalty or servant.”
    â€œI promise. But tell me, son, what do you fear?”
    â€œI’ve been told you will kill . . . someone tomorrow. Someone you don’t want to kill.”
    â€œI will kill no one!” Father’s arms flex across my back. “Come talk to me later. Tonight. Explain what this is all about.”
    Father keeps promises. His words should wrap me in safety. Yet this promise brings no respite. My teeth clench.
    The bull elephant trumpets.
    The blare is astonishing, resounding. All of us run.
    â€œDo not be afraid,” calls a slim boy with a red turban. He speaks in halting Arabic. He has come running from the animal holding pen. “Kooma saw me and gave greeting. That is all.” The boy bows to the ground, then gets up and dashes past, to the great elephant. He pulls a long stalk of naishakar —sugarcane — from the cloth bag that hangs across his shoulder.
    The elephant Kooma chomps the stalk. It disappears into his mouth in jerks.
    â€œThat’s Abdullah,” says the Shah. “He trained Kooma for the hunt.”
    â€œIs that so?” says Bahram.
    Abdullah bows. “I have the honor of being Kooma’s mahout,” he says, using the word from his native Indian tongue. “I am his caretaker and trainer for life. Come, Kooma, show your respect.” He slaps the elephant low on the trunk.
    Kooma stretches his trunk forward a tremendous length.
    We step farther back.
    Abdullah smiles. “He is showing off. An Indian elephant has a much longer trunk than an African one.”
    â€œSo you are his mahout. How does one train an elephant?” asks Ardeshir, approaching the elephant once more.
    Abdullah bows to Ardeshir now. “Is it permitted that I work as we talk?”
    â€œCertainly,” says the Shah.
    We come close, so we can listen easily. Elephants are native to much of India, but not to Persia. None of us is very familiar with them, I venture.
    Abdullah takes a half coconut shell out of his cloth bag and scrapes Kooma’s skin in larger and larger circles. “A bull is more difficult to train,” he says proudly. “I