Page 210 of A King's Oath

“Long back.”

“Then lie down.”

She pushed up to her feet and stood on his head until he had laid down, pulled his duvet over his chest and closed his eyes. She returned his phone to his bedside and went back to the couch.Samarth peeked from the corner of his eyes and waited until her breathing went shallow. When he was sure her eyes were closed, his hand reached out for his phone.

“Samarth,” her warning startled him.

“Just setting my alarm…”

“Just sleep.”

“Yes, yes.”

Like a teenager he lowered his phone’s brightness, popped in his AirPods and hit play on his morning playlist. The first song came on. It wasn’t a Krishna bhajan anymore. That was the second song on his playlist. His eyes fell closed.

Nayan ne bandh raakhi ne mein jyare tamne joya chhe, tame chho ena karta pan vadhare tamne joya chhe…[84]

35. Bonjour, Chevalier!

September in the Loire Valley was made of golden air and slow, sighing wind. The vineyards were bronzed at the edges, their summer greens curling toward the flame. The sky was wide and washed out, a faded blue smudged with clouds. And everywhere, the scent of ripe grapes hung thick and rich in the air — earthy, heady, humming.

Samarth had never looked more out of place.

Standing on the sloped stone path of the Valmont Polo Équestre, the mountain resort nestled between undulating meadows and dense pine ridges, he not only looked but felt like a man who had forgotten how to be still. His hands were in the pockets of a well-cut jacket, and the collar of his polo was buttoned, as if he couldn’t quite convince himself it was leisure he was meant to be having. The tremors and weak shivers of dengue had long left him, but he still felt his body sway with the wind.

He hadn’t wanted to come here. Until the very last day, he had sought reasons to cancel, reschedule, postpone. Rajmata had anticipated them all and kept contingencies ready. If he was to put money on it, Hukum had a hand in that.

Three tickets were booked without discussion. One for him, one for his chef (because you are still in recovery and must haveat least one home-cooked meal a day) and the third one for Harsh and his shrugs and glares. He had missed the latest bike restoration that his garage friends had been planning.

“Who will bodyguard me if not you?” Samarth had joked.

Your body is a guard in itself.

“What if I told you that there is some rare vintage motorcycle exhibition…” Samarth hadn’t gotten a chance to complete that sentence. Harsh had been ready to go.

Which brought him to the present and this lonely sloped stone path of the Valmont Polo Équestre. Harsh had been at the exhibition all day yesterday and had pestered his way for half a day today too.

I’ll come back by 3 and we will go to your vineyard.

It was 12.30 pm and Samarth had bored himself sightseeing across chateaus and palaces and town markets. The truth was, he hadn’t travelled like this in years. Not without purpose. Not without a match to win, a deal to close, an event to attend.

He wasn’t a shopper, he wasn’t big on trying out new cuisines, he wasn’t big on history or architecture unless it was Nawanagar and associated with his ancestors. He was, however, big on horses. And Hukum had sold this place to him right — a mountain polo club. Maybe some French ponies would jolt him to the mood of a vacation.

The resort in front of him wasn’t what he expected. It was elegant but unpretentious, built with stone and timber, the paddocks framed by wildflower beds and a view of the valley that stole his breath before the altitude did.

He made his way to the stables slowly, taking in the property, the flowers blooming even as the trees were bursting into flames.His boots crunched on gravel, taking him into that familiar territory where the smells of leather and manure and wood would make him feel at home anywhere in the world. Children’s laughter rang out across the air like temple bells.

Her peered up at the open pen under the sun. It was a kiddie training session.

Tiny riders — between six and twelve, he guessed — trotted past in lines on sturdy ponies, chattering in a symphony of French, English, and the universal squeals of children who loved what they were doing. He went and rested his forearms on the smooth wood fencing, seeing the backs of little heads, their tiny helmets snug and bobbing. Why had he never found kiddie polo gear so cute before?

“Hey, HH Sam?” A heavily accented voice called out to him from somewhere in the pen. Samarth turned his gaze to a tall man in a fleece jacket with salt-and-pepper hair. “Gir Zephyrs?”

Samarth nodded, squinting.

“Vincent Delacour,” he came striding towards him. “I played for France for a while. We played one tournament against each other in London.”

“Right,” Samarth remembered. He had sported long hair and a beard back then. His hair was shorter now, the beard gone. Delacour. Number 4.

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