Free The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page B

feeling, to locate myself for the first time in the world.
    “I had this map made just before I came,” the sorceress said. “But it's already outdated.” She passed her hand over the parchment, and it seemed that the boundaries of the kingdoms shifted, some growing larger, some shrinking. A few disappeared altogether while others changed names.
    “The kings are always fighting,” she said. “All they want is more land, more power. They tax the common people to starvation and force them to fight in their armies.”
    “Surely there must be some good kings,” I argued, “who care for their subjects.” I was thinking of Krishna, though I knew little of how he governed his lands.
    “Too few,” she said, “and they're tired with fighting. In this Third Age of Man, the good are mostly weak. That is why the earth needs the Great War, so she can start over.”
    There it was again: the Great War, the words like nails scraping my lungs. Hesitantly I said, “I was told I'd be the cause of the war.”
    She looked at me. I thought I saw pity in her eyes. But she merely said, “There are many causes for such a gigantic event.”
    I persisted. “I was told that a million women would be widowed because of me. It wrings my heart to think that I'll cause so much suffering to those who are innocent.”
    “It's always been that way. When did the innocent not suffer? In any case, you're wrong in thinking of woman as an innocent species.” She waved her hand again and the map flickered. It seemed to me that I was looking into a hundred homes, humble and kingly both. I heard the voices and thoughts of women, bitter and bickering. Some wished death and disease on their rivals, others wanted control of their household. Some berated children with words that left scars on their hearts. Some beat servant girls or forced them out, penniless, into the jaws of a ravenous world. Still others whispered their discontent into their sleeping husbands' ears all night, so that the men, waking in the morning, acted out the anger that festered within their wives.
    “As you see,” the sorceress said, “women contribute to the world's problems in a hundred insidious ways. And you, who will be more powerful than most, could wreak greater havoc if you aren't careful. I've taught you some better alternatives—if only you can keep them in mind and not get swept away by passion!”
    “I can!” I said, with the confidence of the untested. I knew I was intelligent—wasn't Dhai Ma always complaining about how overly smart I was? I knew enough to control passion. I visualized myself as a great queen, dispensing wisdom and love. Panchaali the Peacemaker, people would call me.
    The sorceress laughed. That's the last memory I have of her, bent over and clutching her sides until tears ran from her eyes.

9

    The artist had set up the paintings, each covered by a silk veil, by the time I entered the hall. Dhri was already seated, his brow crumpled in a frown, and though he nodded at me, he didn't smile. He hadn't touched the mango juice that Dhai Ma had set beside him. Palpable as heat, his anxiety made me anxious, too. But I'd have to wait until we were alone to find out the problem.
    The artist had visited Kampilya before. When it was time for Drupad's other daughters to be married, he came to paint their likenesses so that they could be sent to kings with whom my father wished to form alliances. But today he'd brought with him the portraits of the leading kings of the land for me to examine. This way, when I faced my suitors in the wedding hall, I would know who each one was.
    I'd hoped to find Krishna here. I was depending on him to tell me the secrets a potential wife needs to know, information the artist was sure to skip over, either from ignorance or fear. Which king had a hidden disease, who was haunted by a family curse, who was a miser, who had retreated from battle, and who was too stubborn to do so. It was mystifying how Krishna knew such