The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

things. But he was nowhere around. Probably, I thought with some annoyance, he was in his palace by the sea, enjoying the company of his wives.
    The artist uncovered the first portrait. “This is the noble Salya, ruler of the southern kingdom of Madradesh,” he intoned, “and uncle to the Pandava princes.”
    I stared at the king, whose elaborately fashioned crown didn't quite hide the whiteness of his hair. His face was good-humored, but his girth betrayed his fondness for the easy life. Under his eyes, the skin sagged.
    “He's old!” I whispered to Dhri in distaste. “He probably has daughters my age. Why would he want to come to the swayamvar?”
    My even-tempered brother shrugged. “It's a challenge, as you yourself said, and men find it hard to turn down challenges. But he's no danger to us. He's not going to win.”
    I appreciated Dhri's choice of a pronoun that coupled our fates, but I found slim comfort in his confidence. If Salya won, I thought with a shudder, he would claim me, and I'd have to go with him, as mute and compliant as the purse of gold a winner carries away at the end of a wrestling match.
    The artist uncovered other portraits. Jarasandha, king of Ma-gadha, with his live-coal eyes. (I'd heard Dhri's tutor say he kept a hundred defeated kings chained in a labyrinth under his palace.) Sisupal, his friend—his hooked chin topped by a sneering mouth— who ruled over Chedi and had a long history of disputes with Krishna. Jayadrath, lord of the Sindhus, with his sinister, sensuous lips. I saw king after king until their faces blurred. Many, I knew, were decent men. But I hated them all for coveting me, and I prayed that each would fail.
    The long afternoon teetered between boredom and dread. I was waiting for one face alone. I wanted to see if I'd visualized it accurately. Probably not. Doesn't the imagination always exaggerate— or diminish—truth?
    When the artist uncovered the last and largest painting, I sat up, certain that it was Arjun's.
    But he said, “Here is the mighty Duryodhan, crown prince of Hastinapur, with the scions of his court.”
    So this was the notorious Kaurava prince, Arjun's cousin! The tutor had whispered to Dhri that he'd hated the Pandava brothers, his dead uncle's sons, from the day they'd arrived at the court, his competitors for the throne he'd believed from birth to be his. There was some talk that he'd tried to drown one of them when they were still children.
    Duryodhan was handsome in a muscle-bound way, though I didn't care for the willful set of his mouth. Encrusted with jewels, he occupied a throne decorated with gold lotuses. Something about the way he leaned forward, his right hand fisted, exuded discontent. To his left sat a man who was a pale, petulant copy of him.
    “His younger brother, Dussasan,” the artist explained.
    The brothers made me uncomfortable, though I couldn't have explained why.
    “Remove the picture,” I commanded, and then, as my eyes were caught by the figure on Duryodhan's right, “No, wait!”
    Older than the prince and austere-faced, the man sat upright, his lean body wary, as though he knew the world to be a dangerous place. Though in the midst of a court, he seemed utterly alone. His only ornaments were a pair of gold earrings and a curiously patterned gold armor unlike anything I'd seen. His eyes were filled with an ancient sadness. They pulled me into them. My impatience evaporated. I no longer cared to see Arjun's portrait. Instead, I wanted to know how those eyes would look if the man smiled. Absurdly, I wanted to be the reason for his smile.
    “Ah, you are looking at Karna,” the artist said, his voice reverent,“ruler of Anga, and best friend of Duryodhan. It is said that he is the greatest—”
    “Stop!”
    The single, sibilant word startled us all. Krishna was standing in the shadow of the doorway. I'd never seen him look so angry.
    “Why are you showing the princess that man's picture? He's no