[h1]9th day of the month of Mihr, 5th year of the reign of the Shahanshah Mazdak, outside the city of Nahavand, Media, The Sasanian Empire[/h1]

Winter had not yet fallen in Nahavand---after all, it was only a few days after Mehrgân---but already in the piedmont of the Alvand a light dusting of snow frosted the tops of the higher hillocks. In the rose gloom of dawn, the mists lay as thick as [i]kashk[/i] on the heights; in that twilight hour, before the sun peaked over the imperious mountains, [i]daevas[/i] were purported to roam unchecked, inciting mischief untold until the light of Ohrmazd the Lord forced them to flee into their furtive dwellings. 

But the thought of [i]daevas[/i] did not frighten the three figures who now penetrated those opaque mists. 
	
Valash, the younger of the pair, had only nine summers to his name, and it was on his insistence (how endless had been his pleas!) that Bavand, his elder by nearly fifteen years, had finally yielded and decided upon taking the boy on his first hunt. Yet Bavand had been determined that he should learn the proper way---no grand escorts, no pageantry, no processions of eunuchs and concubines and glittering finery. 

“This shall not be like the Shahanshah traipsing through the woods to the sweet pluckings of the palace musicians while his [i]men[/i] roust the boar.” No, Valash would hunt in the manner that their forebears had hunted; and, eventually, Bavand had got his way, despite the ululations of the boy’s mother. The pair had risen while even the cocks still slept, and along with the laconic manservant Namvar, quietly mounted and rode out under the light of the stars. 
	
It was bitterly cold. Valash wore a tight caftan of wool with a lining of rough silk, a mantle of Khotan ermine, thick woolen hose, fur-lined boots and warm leather gloves; yet even with these accouterments his teeth chattered and his face and fingers were going numb. Bavand fared little better, despite a cloak of fox fur that his father had gleaned from the White Huns, while Namvar, stoic and immoveable as always, stared on blankly---yet, even in the half-light, he could be discerned to be working his lips, gnashing his teeth, as if he was willing himself not to succumb to the cold. The Lurs were a proud people; far be it Namvar to prove himself weak to something as trivial as nature. 
	
It had been a worldless affair. In the darkness, the gossamer thin oak leaves had let in, like the light of a candle behind a silken screen, the luminescence of the stars. It was autumn; the entire country had erupted into a conflagration of maroons, citrons, and shades of umber; in the town, they had smelt the aromas of the lavash bakers, who had risen even before they, at their tandoors; on the road, the trees had a perfume of their own, and more distant, there was the smell of ripe quinces that had been picked over for the Mehrgân feast. 

They passed over silent streams choked with gilded leaves, through fields of winter wheat and sour barley. But those sweet sights, like dim vignettes in the gloom, faded as they came unto the foothills. Here there was only the must of grass and dung, and, like a dagger in the wind, the faint presentiment of snow.  
	
Finally, as the Alvand came into view, Bavand held a gloved hand aloft, reined his mare, and, signalling his cohorts to halt, broke the silence that had hung between them, “We’ll breakfast before we hunt, and wait for dawn.”

He nodded towards Namvar, who brought his horse alongside the two princes and produced a parcel of the previous night’s lavash, cheese, walnuts, pickled quinces, apples, and tarragon---wilted in the ride---from his saddlebags. For the young prince, it was meager fare to be sure. On beholding what would be their breakfast, Valash exclaimed excitedly, yet also with a tincture of confusion, “We’re eating like peasants!” 

But it was of no consequence to the two men, who rapaciously gnawed at the stale bread and let the thick quince juices dribble down their chins. Eventually, Valash too reneged on his prior skepticism; with a mouthful of cheese and bread and hunks of sweet nuts, he thought, dreamily, that he could not remember a better breakfast. 
	
Through brief lacunae in their feast, Valash saw fit to satisfy the curiosity that plagues all youths in the form of an endless variety of questions. 

“Shall we find many quarries today, brother?” 

“Why does the Shah go to Susa in the winter?” 

“Did our father give you your bow?” 

“Have you ever seen a cataphract?” 
	
“Is it almost dawn?” 
	
“What will we catch today?” 

“Have you ever heard of Eskandar the Roman? Farnod taught me of him yesterday. He said he lived came from Egypt and killed the Shah and burnt the Avesta! Did you know that?” 

“Have you ever seen a [i]daeva[/i]?” 

“He also told me there’s a giant bird that lives in a tree in the middle of the sea! How can such a thing be possible?” 

Each of these Bavand answered with half a grunt and half a word, but in good humor; Namvar, in a rare moment, seemed to wear a bemused grin, if it could be called that. 
	
Their breakfast at end, and with the sun still hidden behind the curtain of the mountains, Bavand thought it high time to give the boy a sermon on the virtues of the hunt. With an air of mysticism, he produced his bow, curved in the style of the White Huns, nocked an arrow from his quiver, pulled, and, after a pause, aimed high and loosed. The arrow whirled and whistled through the air, flew in a great arc, and was lost to sight against the distant mountains.

With a smirk, he turned to Valash and asked, with an air of portent, “Do you know what this is?” 

“Yes,” the boy answered bluntly. “It’s a bow.” 

“It’s not just a bow,” Bavand answered, caressing the weapon’s lacquered curvature, “it’s [i]my[/i] bow. And only my bow. None but me can use it. Do you know why?” 

Valash giggled, “Because if just anyone used a prince's bow they'd be killed!” 

Bavand smacked his lips, and continued, “[i]Because[/i], a man’s weapon is like his soul. It obeys him if his will is strong, and denies him if his will is weak. I am this bow’s master because my will is strong enough to gain its fealty. Yet if another endeavored to use it, they would be smote by Mazda. My sons shall wield this bow, if they are strong enough, just as Rostam wielded the [i]Gorza[/i] like his father before him.” 
	
“Take out your bow, [i]brâdar[/i].” 

Valash brought out his bow, much smaller than his brother’s, but in the same style. 

“Loose an arrow,” Bavand commanded, with no small amount of gravitas. 

Valash, his small hands quaking, gingerly nocked an arrow, and although he had been thoroughly instructed since he was old enough to hold a bow, he, at least in the presence of his brother, faltered. Perhaps it was the cold that had made his arm stiff, for he could barely draw the arrow back, and when he finally did loose, it only flew to the crest of one of the nearby moors. 

Dejectedly, he murmured, expecting rebuke, “I am sorry, brother. I was not strong.” 

With affection, Bavand ruffled the boy’s woolen cap, “[i]Nē, brād[/i],” he began, “You are yet young, as I am.” 

He nocked another arrow to his bow, and drew. “When I draw, I imagine myself as Freydun smiting Zahāk!” He laughed, high and clear, and loosed; again, the arrow flew far afield. 

Bavand looked once more at his brother, shivering in his furs, and smiled, “I speak of serious things, my brother, and it is good for you to remember them. You may very well be [i]spāhbed[/i] one day---but that is many years hence. Remember this only: do not be afraid. A raptor knows when the hawker fears it; it is the same for the bow and the man. Draw without fear and your arrow will fly true.” 
	

They waited a while longer, in comfortable silence, while Namvar ensured that the two prince’s kits were in order. Finally, it seemed, a coral glow had risen dimly over the peaks of the Alvand, and the sky had faded to a pallid indigo flecked with stars and blushing cloudbanks, although the pre-dawn chill had not yet lifted. 

Gathering the reins in one hand and with his bow, an arrow at the ready, in the other, Bavand nodded towards Namvar, and said simply, “It’s time.” 
	
By the end of their excursion, they had caught five hares, and with great luck, a pheasant. A fine haul for Valash’s first hunt, and he had even loosed the quirrel that slew the pheasant. 

“We shall have Mahbood make us a proper [i]fesenjān[/i] from this pheasant, just for us, eh Namvar?” He smiled at the Lurish man, who looked him up and down with mild derision before urging his mare on. 

Bavand reined in closely alongside the young prince, and whispered, nearly on the verge of laughter, “You might not think it, but Namvar loves rich [i]khoresh[/i] and sweets. If you have a perceptive eye, you will see him reach into his robe and bring his hand out again, very discretely. He will look around to ensure that he is unseen, then in an instant, he will pop a piece of [i]goz[/i] into his mouth. I've even seen him sneaking morsels from other people's plates at table, the little rat! Perhaps he never speaks in fear that his teeth will fall out!” 

In the end, he did laugh, that high and clear laugh that one could hear even on the other side of the palace, and spurred his mount on to catch up with their mute companion. 

The sun was at their backs, now high and lavishing the world in Mazda’s warmth from its cornice above the Alvand, enticing the autumn oaks to shimmering. Namvar had even saved an apple to reward Valash for a successful hunt. With his eyes on the fur-shawled back of his brother Bavand, the honeyed rays filtering through the leaves, and with the dulcet memory of the apple still on his tongue, Valash thought for the second time that day that he could not remember a happier time in his life. 

It was at that moment that the arrow struck him in the shoulder and convulsed his body with another kind of heat entirely. The ground came up to meet him, and he heard nothing but the bone clattering of the leaves in a freshly risen breeze from the west.