The gate on the right side of the courtyard opened; the two convicts, the spice merchant and the officer of registry, entered. The executioner was familiar with the signs of fear that men on the brink of death exhibited: the dark stains on the crotch, the glazed eyeballs, the dragging footsteps.

The herald of executions announced the sentence. The first convict was positioned next to the chief executioner. The drummer sounded three beats; the Shah felt the painful resonance of the third in his chest. Had he allowed too much?

Silent rancor hung in the air. None doubted the outcome of the race the princess had devised between the executioner and the two convicts. It was rumored that the exotic princess had demanded the merchant’s hands be severed before his head was, so no one would cheat the royal coffer again. But the Shah had refused her wish.

The merchant and the executioner began the race toward the opposite gate where the scimitar hung. The merchant fought to control the violent shaking of his legs. Finding the struggle futile, he collapsed and began to crawl. But the executioner had long reached the end line and had removed the scimitar from its peg. The one who arrived at the gate first would be accorded sanctuary, but only if he had the time and the strength to draw the scimitar and sever the other man’s head.

The Shah waited for Raven to give the order of execution as previously planned. All turned to her.

A child in appearance but carrying herself as no adult ever had, she lifted herself from her couch. Her voice boomed at the convict. “Stand up and say: ‘Long live the king.’”

The Shah was stunned at the resonant voice of his daughter. But he was more alarmed by her callousness. Even in his most violent moments he could never rob a man of his dignity, as his daughter was doing, oblivious to his humiliation as he struggled to rise, hanging to the last moments of life. “Relieve the man of his embarrassment!” the king commanded.

Intoxicated with glory, she cried out, “Let him live!”

The scimitar dropped from Iron Heart’s grip, wrenching a groan from the air. The convict’s eyes gaped as if begging for further forgiveness; urine wet his pants—a spreading stain on the earth.

Raven realized that from now on she was no longer answerable to anyone but the king himself. And his rule she did not mind. She would have prostrated herself at his feet if he would not have translated it as an act of weakness. Her hand rested on his thigh. One day, only for her, he would change the ancient law.

The next morning, when the people of Persia went to observe the heads that were promised to be displayed on stakes over the gates of the Courtyard of Horses, they wondered what had thwarted the executions.