The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page A

prince.”
    Flustered, the artist covered up the painting with shaking hands, begging Krishna's pardon.
    I was bewildered. Why was Krishna so vehement? What was it about this man that made him react in this uncharacteristic manner? Something in me was drawn to defend the sad-eyed Karna. “Why do you say he's that? Isn't he king of Anga?”
    “It was a kingdom gifted to him by Duryodhan,” Krishna said, his voice like metal, “as an insult to the Pandavas. He's just the son of a chariot driver.”
    For the first time, I was unconvinced by his words. A man who sat with such unconcern among princes, a man who had the power to perturb Krishna, had to be more than merely a chariot-driver's son. I turned to Dhri to check. His eyes flickered and fell. Ah, there was a secret, something Krishna wasn't telling me! I'd have to extract it from my brother later.
    Krishna said, brusquely, “Don't you have any other portraits?”
    “I have your majesty's likeness,” the artist stammered, backing from the room, “and that of your illustrious brother, Balaram. A million pardons! I will bring them at once!”
    Heat rose to my face. Did Krishna want to be one of my suitors? I'd never thought of that possibility. All these years he'd been to me as the air I breathed—indispensable and unconsidered. But today I sensed that there was more to him than the jesting self he'd chosen, until now, to reveal to me. This new Krishna, his eyes stern withanger, his voice like an arrow—I was certain he could pass the swayamvar test if he wished it.
    How would it be to have him as my husband? An uneasiness rose in me as I turned the thought around in my mind. I loved him— but not in that way.
    Krishna smiled his old, mocking smile. “Don't worry, Krishnaa,” he said. “I'm not going to compete against my friend Arjun. Nor will Balaram. We know your destiny leads you elsewhere.”
    It was embarrassing to be so transparent. I looked down at the patterned marble of the floor, determined to give away nothing else.
    “But I'll be there,” he said. “On that crucial day, I'll be there— to keep you from choosing wrongly.”
    My eyes flew to his face. What did he mean? Bound as I was by the contest, what was left for me to choose?
    His eyes were cool and inscrutable. Behind him, Dhri gazed out at the burnished afternoon and stifled a yawn. Had I imagined Krishna's words? Or had he spoken them inside my head, only for me to hear?

    The artist reentered, bent under the weight of two silver-framed portraits that Krishna waved impatiently away. “Why haven't you shown the princess the pictures of the Pandavas?” he demanded.
    The artist hesitated, clearly afraid of Krishna's wrath, but finally he whispered, “Your Highness, they're dead.”
    My heart thudded loudly, out of rhythm. What was he saying? And why didn't Krishna or Dhri contradict him? Could it be true? Was this why Dhri had looked so anxious?
    “What have you heard?” Krishna asked, far too calmly.
    “There was a fire,” the artist said. “All the tradesmen on the road were talking about it. In Varanavat, where the five princes had gonefor a holiday with their mother, the poor widowed Kunti. The guesthouse they were staying in burnt to the ground. People found nothing but ashes—and six skeletons! Folks are thinking it was murder. Some say the house was built of lac, designed for easy burning. But of course no one dares to accuse Duryodhan!”
    “That's what I heard, too,” Dhri cried. “What a loss for all Bharat!”
    My head whirled. Part of me was aghast at the terrible thing that had happened to the Pandavas and their mother, but a larger part could think only of myself. Fear makes us selfish. If Arjun was dead, what would happen to me? If no king was able to pass the test, the swayamvar would be a failure. My father would be denounced for setting his guests an impossible task. I'd be forced to live out the rest of my life as a spinster. But worse things could happen. The