Page 18 of A King's Oath

“Kush, Sam, Gopi, Vishu. Ready?”

“Ready, Coach.”

“Kush,” Coach commanded. “Lawrence’s Number 4 is a bruiser. He’ll try to body you out of position. Stay light, keep moving.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“You,” he glanced at Samarth. “Their Number 2 is your mirror. Quick hands, mean streak. Get in his head before he gets in yours.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Gopi, this lot is yours.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Get out there, cavalry. Let’s go!”

“Let’s go!” They clapped their hands together — three quick claps.

As a team, they marched out of the stables and into the field — all of them in their whites. White polo shirts with their school crest on their chests, their numbers stamped on their backs, riding boots on. All they needed now was their protective gear.

The sun was bright on this early Udaipur morning. The clean scent of fresh-cut grass, moist and dewy, rose from the field. The Grandstands were filling up in the faraway distance, the VIP Pavilion empty. His Papa had planned to come see this match but his meeting in Delhi had run over last night. He had another breakfast catch-up, as he had regretfully informed Samarth last night. Samarth understood, of course. He had pushed his father to stay back instead of working out his breakfast meeting over video call from here.

The royal guards, police surveillance and security were lax around the Pavillion. Mewad’s steward, the king, hadn’t arrived yet.

“Gear up, cavalry!” Coach ordered.

Samarth walked to his chair under the pergola set up outside the stables. Harsh was already there, sorting through his mallets to line them up in order of height.

“Harsh, you don’t have to do all this!” He told his best friend and bodyguard and almost-elder brother for the umpteenth time. He only held up one silent hand, measuring mallets against one another.

“Check the numbers,” Samarth helped.

Harsh’s fingers wiggled in a gesture to shoo him away. Samarth laughed, sitting down on his chair and beginning to fasten hisriding gear. Knee guards. Elbow guards. Helm… he stopped. Again he had left his helmet in the stables!

He had developed this habit of carrying his helmet with him everywhere he went.

He huffed, slapping his thighs and springing to his feet.

“Ehh!” Harsh called out. He gestured with one hand — “Eeee?”

“To get my helmet.”

Harsh’s usually monotonous face burst into a chuckle. Then more hand gestures. Samarth didn’t know how he had come to learn sign language. Ever since he remembered, he had been able to talk to Harsh, without any formal training in his language.

Your mind was old, now it’s getting demented, Kunwar.

Samarth kneed his side, hoping to dislodge him. The mountain didn’t even budge. How had his Papa’s prim and petite Prime Minister’s son turned out like this?!

Harsh lifted his knee to nudge him and Samarth ran away quickly. He had a game to play today. Couldn’t afford a Harsh’s knee-sized crack in his hip.

Samarth ran inside the stables and searched. Where had he kept it? He had entered the stables holding it, then gone to meet Cherry first thing. Samarth went to Cherry’s makeshift stall. Not there. He had gone to the brush kit next because Bella had needed some pick-me-up after her trailer ride yesterday. She didn’t like being jostled too much. And his poor girl had to endure a long road trip from Dehradun to Udaipur.

Samarth jogged to the brushing and grooming kits, working through the mess his teammates had made there.

“Looking for this?”

He whirled. And stumbled back.

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