The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page B

insulted kings could decide to band together in a war against my father and divide the spoils of the fallen kingdom—including me—among them.
    “Krishna,” Dhri's voice held a tremor. “What are we to do? Is it too late to call off the swayamvar?”
    “Dear boy!” Krishna answered, with inexplicable good humor, “hasn't that earnest brahmin who labors over your studies taught you anything? Princes must not panic until they've tested the truth of a rumor for themselves.”
    “But the skeletons—”
    Krishna shrugged. “Bones may belong to anyone.” He signaled to the artist to bring the portraits of the Pandavas.
    “How can you be certain?” Dhri asked. Then his eyes widened. “Have they sent you word?”
    “No,” said Krishna. “But in my heart I'd know it if Arjun were dead.”
    I wanted to believe him, but I was racked by doubt. Can hearts know these things? I was sure that mine was incapable of such subtle perceptions.
    “Here are the five Pandava brothers,” the artist announced, uncovering the portrait with a flourish, revealing the man we were all hoping would be my husband.

    Later Dhai Ma said, “He's too dark, and his eyes have a stubborn look. The oldest brother, what's his name, Yudhisthir—now he looked much calmer. Did you see how he sat in the painting, plump and regal, smiling with those even white teeth? Maybe you'd better marry him. He's going to be the king, after all—that's if their old uncle ever hands over the throne.”
    “Arjun is taller!” I spoke with pert brightness, trying to dispel another face with its ancient, sad eyes that kept coming to my mind. “And didn't you see his battle scars? That proves how brave he is.”
    Dhai Ma wrinkled up her nose. “How could I miss them? They were like earthworms all over his shoulders. If tall is what you want, I say you go for the second brother, that Bheem. Those muscles were quite a sight! I've heard he's easy to please, too. Just give him a large and tasty meal, and he's yours for life!”
    “Didn't you say that was how Duryodhan tricked him as a child? Gave him poisoned rice pudding and then, when he became unconscious, threw him into the river? Arjun would have been too intelligent for that. I can tell by the sharpness of his nose, his chiseled chin.”
    “Chiseled!” Dhai Ma made a rude sound. “It's cleft in two, and you know what that means: a roving eye. Such men are trouble from start to finish, and don't I know it! If it's good looks you're after,why not choose one of the two youngest, the twins. Eyes like lotus petals, skin like gold, bodies like young shal trees.” She smacked her lips in approval.
    “For heaven's sake, Dhai Ma, they're far too young for me! I prefer the mature, masterful kind.”
    She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Then I guess you're stuck with your Arjun. At least try not to be fool enough to give him mastery over you. But your brain is probably too addled with romance to retain anything I'm saying.”
    “I suspect I'll have to take you along when I'm married, so you can remind me,” I said, and we laughed together. But the laughter faded quickly. The jokes fell from us; only the uncertainties we'd tried to hide beneath them remained. Dhai Ma put an arm around me. Did she guess how my heart balked inside me like a horse that refuses to follow its rider's commands? How I longed to speak to her of that other, forbidden name: Karna. Outside, night birds called to each other as they looped through the inky night, their pensive cries close, then far, then unexpectedly close again.

10

    I wanted to know what Kunti looked like. I thought it would be wise preparation, in case she turned out to be my mother-in-law. Perhaps her face would give me a clue as to what lay inside. (I hadn't forgotten the sorceress's warning.) But the artist didn't have a picture of her. He sent me, with apologies, a different portrait: that of Gandhari, Duryodhan's mother and Arjun's aunt.
    The portrait was small, about a