“The eldest Pandava liked to read,” the palace recalled wistfully. “But he had trouble choosing a room to read in. So I made sure his bed could float anywhere and books could be brought to him.”
The walls were covered with thinly beaten gold, and the floor was a marvel of mirrors and sapphire pools.
“The youngest liked to admire himself, so I made sure there were plenty of places where he might catch glimpses of his beauty.”
A lush garden dripped from the ceiling, eclipsing the previous illusion. Glass vials and sheaves of parchment dotted a worktable.
“The second youngest liked the sciences, so I made sure there was always an abundance of living things to study.”
A stadium unfurled in front of them. It contained spinning wheels, moving targets, and racetracks that curved from the floor to the ceiling.
“The second eldest liked to test his strength, so I made sure he had challenging arenas.”
The next image showed a mishmash of all the items from the previous illusions.
“The third eldest liked a little of everything, so I made sure nothing escaped his interest.”
The final image was a room full of soft light.
“And wise and beautiful Draupadi, wife to the five brothers—what she wanted most of all was peace. I tried to grant her wish, but the closest I could muster was light.”
The images faded.
“How fitting that I am called the Palace of Illusions when all I have left are memories. Perhaps memories are the grandest illusion of all,” said the palace quietly. And then, in a voice even softer and smaller: “In my memories, they seemed so happy with me.”
Pity twisted through Aru. But it was quickly erased when the twin braziers flickered back to life.
“And now you wish to spoil those memories, too? Taunt me with the idea that the Pandavas have returned?”
“We didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” said Mini. Her eyes shone.
“Notreturnedso much as beenreincarnated,” said Aru. “There’s a difference. I didn’t even remember that we had a house! Honest.”
The house shivered.
“You,” it started sniffling, “are saying that I’m not worthremembering?”
“No!” Aru winced. “Not at all!”
Mini scowled at Aru and bent down to rub one of the tiles like you would a dog’s belly. “No, no,” she said soothingly. “What she means is, we don’t really have much of a memory about our past lives! We didn’t even know we were Pandavas until, like, last week.”
“I have never let anyone past these halls that was not a Pandava, or a guest of a Pandava.”
More dust fell on Aru. Yup. It was definitely pulverized bone. She tried not to gag.
A scroll of parchment unraveled from the ceiling. Thousands upon thousands of names were written on it. The ink dripped down the paper before puddling on the floor.
“Ah, so sorry, but you’re not on the list,” said the palace. There was a malicious tinge to its voice now. “So I suppose you’ll just have to prove that you really are Pandavas.”
Once more, the house shook. The walls flashed with different colors. No longer was Aru staring at the ruins of a palace. Now she was in the middle of a forest.
But it wasn’t real. The illusion—as she had to keep reminding herself—felt so real that the grass even prickled beneath her feet. Fireflies drifted drowsily through the evening air. The jungle had that smell of overripe fruit that had fallen and gone uneaten.
“Whoa,” she breathed, turning to Mini.
But Mini wasn’t there.
“Hey! Where—?” Aru spun around wildly. She was all alone. Around her, the forest began to laugh. Leaves fell down on her slowly. Cruelly. Each leaf that touched her skin left a tiny wound the size of a paper cut.
