Page 202 of A King's Oath

“Whenever I got sick as a child, you ran around in paranoia. That is why I did not want to tell you this time. But now you are… so normal,” he smirked. “I think Sharan made you give up on panicking for our sicknesses.”

Papa laughed, the sound deep and amused, but also a little… sad.

“No, Tara took over the role of the panicky parent.”

Samarth’s smirk faded.

“One of us has to keep calm and bring the other down the rails. I did this alone with you all those years ago and I can’t even go back to think how I took all the stress and the fears. Dadi Sarkar was there to talk me down the rails but still,” he smiled, his eyes far away. “You are an adult now, a king, way past ready to getmarried and have your own children. And yet, the moment you fell unconscious on your bed and your fever wouldn’t go down, everything became immaterial. I didn’t get a chance to panic then because Tara did enough of that for the two of us. That’s parenthood. You’ll know when you go through it with a partner.”

Samarth’s mouth turned bitter.

“Why are you drinking his Limca, Sid?” Rajmata’s enraged thunder startled them both half off the bed.

“I was just holding it for him…”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Papa shoved the glass into his hand. “Now try holding it, your hand won’t shake.” He pushed him under the bus. Samarth glanced from the half-full glass of Limca to Rajmata and drank it down in one gulp.

“Now the per-day count is messed up,” she announced. “You will finish this and then another bottle for my peace of mind.”

“What? Why? Papa drank only half a glass…”

“Sam-arth!” His father hissed.

“Sorry,” he winced. “My head is not working at full capacity.”

Rajmata plucked the glass from his hand, filled it and passed it back again.

“You,” she pointed at Papa. “Go. Now I am here.”

His father dutifully vacated the space, walked around the bed and strode towards the door. He turned at the door and pointed at her — “Panicky,” he mouthed.

Samarth laughed. Rajmata turned and he was gone. Samarth continued laughing.

34. Immunity Booster

The pandemonium of the Durbar Hall hit his eardrums after three days of nothing but the silence of his bedchambers. Rajmata had been a constant chatter in that silence, with Papa’s silent chuckles and Sharan’s occasional bursts before she shooed him away. Night four, his fever cycle had broken. And he had fought his way through Rajmata’s decree and convinced her to let him out for four hours of court. Papa would still helm their office in the afternoon.

She had agreed. but with some conditions.

Samarth sat on the throne now, doing what he had been doing for almost a decade singlehandedly. Bade Rawal rarely appeared unless summoned by tradition or a particularly knotty dispute. Power had transitioned — quietly, gracefully, and completely.

He adjusted the cuff of his pale blue shirt, the sleeves rolled once to keep the fabric from tugging at his suddenly thin wrists. The Apple Watch on his wrist was one of the non-negotiable conditions from Rajmata to track his pulse more often than it should. Dengue wasn’t completely gone. And he had a feeling it wouldn’t leave him unmarked. There was a faint shadow under his eyes, a stillness in his limbs, and sometimes, when he thought no one noticed, a fleeting tremor in his hand.

But his voice? That was intact. Cold. Crisp. Commanding.

“Proceed,” he said, nodding to the clerk who shuffled a paper from the stack.

Seated just behind him, on a smaller chair was Sharan. He had sat on that chair and shadowed Papa as a teenager. Sharan, even at 18, did little of shadowing and more of experimenting. He was dressed in a decent shirt and pants but his mussed wavy-haired head was bent over the digital thermometer that he had popped discreetly under his armpit, his black-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. After a few seconds, he checked the reading, frowned, then scribbled something into his leather-bound notebook titledAedes Aegypti Mosquito Research: Private.

Samarth gave him a sidelong glance over his shoulder.“Are you checking for symptoms again?”

He didn’t even look up.“Just monitoring. Dr. Haren said relapse is possible. I have crossed the critical phase and am into recovery…”

“It’s court, not a clinic. Put it away.”

“Yes, Rawal,” he muttered, stuffing it into his bag, which already carried two Petri dishes, a hand lens, and one lone — possibly dead—Aedes aegyptimosquito trapped in a matchbox, if he wasn’t mistaken.

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