Page 172 of A King's Oath

Papa was gone. Papa was gone. Everybody was gone. He screamed, inside himself or in Maarani’s stomach, he didn’t know.No! No! No!Her hands pushed his head harder into her saree. He shook. His shoulders, his chest, his stomach, histhighs. He was shaking. He was alone. There was nobody for him anymore. Papa had left without even seeing him one last time. He gasped, coming to his senses. Realising that he wasn’t four anymore, crying for a mother who was never coming back. He didn’t have the luxury to cry for a father who wasn’t coming back either.

Samarth took a deep, shuddering breath. His head dropped back, his mouth opening to apologise. But it snapped shut when she pushed his hair off his forehead and thumbed his eyes clean. They burned, but he stared transfixed at Maarani, drying his lashes like he had seen her do innumerable times for Sharan.

“Now be a good boy,” she said, just like she told Sharan all the time. “Stand up, and walk with me.”

Samarth knew what walking with her would mean. He was not only trampling over his oath and his father and ancestors’s legacy but also adding his name to the list of throne-hungry vultures of his kingdom. But what paled in front of all of those was the promise he had made to a girl not long ago. He would be trampling over the life he had promised her.

But Sharan stood there, alone and clueless at that tender age. Not ready to sit on a throne and lose his childhood. And Maarani was walking away, out of her chambers, having lost her security blanket and still trusting him. As he had done up until now in his life, Samarth took a deep breath, saidJai Dwarkadhishand chose what his wisdom pointed was right at that moment. His eyes met Hukum’s and he looked steadfast. Samarth believed he knew better to have pushed this.

Maarani led him to the court that was in full attendance, the papers, keys and Raj Sinh Mohar in her hand. She preceded him in a whirl of white, unconcerned with the gasps and openmouths of the courtiers at her sudden appearance. Samarth kept walking, feeling the life drain out of him with every step.

She climbed the steps to the throne and turned to the waiting court.

“I, Tara Sinh Solanki, Maarani of Nawanagar, hand over the Raj Sinh Mohar of Nawanagar to Kunwar Samarth Sinh Solanki and declare him your next Rawal.”

Maarani offered the heavy royal stamp to him. And his palms automatically opened for it.

She moved aside and gestured to the throne. But he couldn’t bring himself to sit on it.

She caught his gaze and gave a valiant nod. Something in her eyes made his feet move.

He stepped to the throne, trying not to drag his feet.

“Sit, Samarth,” Maarani ordered.

He exhaled, and slowly lowered himself on the royal throne of his ancestors, the throne of his father and his grandfather.

Maarani reached out, pushed her thumb in the red kunku paste on the platter beside the throne and smeared it up his forehead. His head bowed by reflex and her hand landed atop his head. Tight, firm, like Papa’s used to. She just didn’t shake it playfully like he used to. Instead, she patted it. Twice. Then one more time.

“Rawal Samarth Sinh Solanki ni — Jai!”

“Rawal Samarth Sinh Solanki ni — Jai!”

“Rawal Samarth Sinh Solanki ni — Jai!”

As Maarani took three steps back from him in the new dictate of protocol, the court reverberated with a new chant.

“Rajmata Tara Sinh Solanki ni — Jai!”

“Rajmata Tara Sinh Solanki ni — Jai!”

“Rajmata Tara Sinh Solanki ni — Jai!”

Samarth sat straight and saw her turn and leave the court to those chants. He had promised once that he would ensure her heirs remain safe and rule Nawanagar. He was still steadfast on that promise. This throne would pass onto Sharan. There would be no contestant to his claim.

29. At Least Remember Your Own Words

“Here, Raje,” Ananya passed her the brick that she set atop the wet layer of cement amid soft applause. Avantika kept her smile in place as she accepted the coconut from their Rajguru and cracked it open on the brick, sprinkling its water around the pit. These rituals were ingrained into her since she was a young girl, having done bhoomi poojan for countless temples, houses, roads and highways in their kingdom. This one was for a state-sponsored play school and daycare centre where working parents would be able to drop their children at a sparing fee. The country was progressing to working families, their state was keeping up in providing facilities to make that lifestyle easier.

This land had been donated by Kaka Maharaj, and she was sent from the family because she was the youngest and the only one who wasn’t drowned in wedding prep. Even after her mother’s numerous attempts to pull her into shopping and trials, Avantika would always find herself lost, wandering, in a corner or by a window. Like some lovesick fool. She knew she wasn’t a lovesick fool. She was drowning in thoughts of him — wondering how difficult things must be for him, how would he be going through the motions, how would he be managingeverything singlehandedly. Moreover, how would he be dealing with his father’s death.

He hadn’t called her again so she had called him, and continued calling him every night. They didn’t talk for more than a few minutes every night. And those were courteous exchanges.

Did you eat?

Yes.

Are you sleepy?

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