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Kooma’s trunk where Father put his. Kooma waits. Both my hands run down his tusk. The tip is jagged. Fear shoots from theback of my neck, up behind my ears. I walk around the front of Kooma and inspect the other tusk. It ends sharp but smooth.
    Abdullah is at my shoulder. “He may have hit a large rock when he was digging for roots once. Or he may have broken the tip of that tusk in a battle with another bull.”
    â€œWould he battle a lion or a tiger?”
    â€œHis job is to drive them out of their hiding places toward the hunters.”
    â€œBut if he had to, would he battle a lion or a tiger?”
    â€œHe would not back down.”
    â€œWould he battle a man?”
    Abdullah’s face goes slack. His eyes grow guarded. “You have nothing to fear from Kooma. He is well trained.”
    I nod. “Thank you, Abdullah, for the reassurance.” I turn my back on the beast and run as fast as I can after the men. I must stay by Father’s side until we have a chance to speak. And in the meantime, I must rack my brain for a way to undo the pari’s curse.

CHAPTER FOUR
The Plan
    W e are seated in the garden pavilion, clusters of men on the floor, talking with our heads almost touching. I don’t want to be here — despite my fasting today, all hunger has fled in the wake of the curse. My entire body is tense with the effort of playing host. And a poor host I am, anyway, for the curse has deafened my ears so that these men have to repeat what they say to me several times before I finally understand and give an appropriate, if brief, response.
    The smell of sib — apple—permeates the breath of the rich Persian merchant to my left. He must have chewed the dry fruit on his journey here, for our midday meal had no apple. I smell syah-dane — fennel — on the breath of the Indian man to my right. His teeth are as black from chewing these seeds as the teeth of Abdullah, the elephant trainer. And maybe, justmaybe, his breath also carries a hint of sir —garlic. I never eat garlic or even onions, unless they are cooked until they become transparent and their sweetness emerges. I heed the old Persian warning against the way hot spices can excite the flesh. Hindus heed this warning, too, or so I thought. Our guest must be daring.
    The adhan sounds, at last. Sunset comes late at this time of summer. The men have been waiting for the call to prayers, so that they can eat once more.
    I am here in this pavilion for my private reason: Kiyumars. I searched for him this afternoon and I couldn’t find him. He’s likely to help in serving the dinner meal now, though. I have to talk with him —I have to find out if the pari sought him out, after all —if he, too, is cursed because of my poor decision. And if so, what the nature of that curse may be. I must help him.
    The men around me rise as one and perform the wudhu in the water basins, which have been refilled with fresh water. We bow, only three rakatha this time. The ritual prayers cover me, like a cloak. The smell of abghosht —mutton on the bone cooked with white beans and spinach—brings tears to my eyes. This food would have been delicious to the innocent self I was but yesterday, the self who deserved nourishment.
    The rice is served in large bowls. I look around. Kiyumars is at the far end of the pavilion, ladeling abghosht from the cooking vat into serving bowls. I get up from my place on the floor and walk around the outside of the pavilion, the muscles of my stomach tightening so hard, I think I may double over. My feet rush at the last moment, so that I knock another servant boy, who falls against Kiyumars’ arm. Kiyumars laughs good-naturedly. He looks at me in surprise. “My prince?”
    I back off, shaking my head at Kiyumars’ obvious lightheartedness. I am alone in this curse, at least. The pari has spared Kiyumars. At least that. My relief is sharply lonely.
    Shahpour puts his