The actual words came from every direction. She even saw letters bubbling up like blisters on her skin: L-I-A-R. She winced, but the red marks vanished. Just another illusion.
“When the Pandavas left,” said the palace, “they bade farewell to all except the one thing that had given them shelter and watched over them as they slept. Was my beauty not enough to tempt them to stay? My illusions were forged of the same stuff that made up their dreams. I was their dream home. Literally. But still they left. So why should I believe they would come back?”
The palace smelled sour. As if it was sulking.
Aru didn’t think it was possible to sympathize with a palace, and yet she did. Before now she had never thought about how a house must feel when its family stuck a FOR SALE sign on the lawn and then packed up and left. If the palace could be sad, did that mean her apartment missed her? Now she really wanted to run to the museum and hug a pillar.
“I’m…I’m so sorry you felt left behind,” said Mini carefully. “Maybe they—I mean, we left you a note? But I promise we’re not lying about who we are. You see, we’ve got urgent business and need to get through the other side of the palace.”
“Why?” it asked.
The ceiling caved inward. When Aru squinted, it looked a bit like a frowny face. And then it blazed red.
Maybe not a frowny face. Maybe more of a fury face.
“Because we need to save the world,” said Aru. “If there’s no world, what’s going to happen to you?”
A wall of fire sprang up in front of Aru.
“You’re horrifyingly rude!” said the palace. “Is this what I have missed out on during all these millennia in the depths of Death’s kingdom? Well, then, I’m not sorry. Not a whit.”
“Please,” said Mini. “Just let us through. This was the only way in from the forest.”
“Ah, I miss my true forest,” said the palace fondly. “I am hewn from its trees. Sand from those puddles sealed my cracks. My woods once wriggled with deplorable things. When the Pandavas decided to build their home, the creatures were banished. The great architect king Mayasura’s life was spared in exchange for building them a palace the likes of which no one had ever seen: me.”
The wall of fire disappeared, revealing a most magnificent hall. Tall living statues studded with jewels paced back and forth. One of them had a glass belly that housed a miniature library.
“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.
“Not returned so much as been reincarnated,” 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 worth remembering?”
“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.
“I told you that if you wanted to get through me, you’d have to prove yourself a Pandava,” murmured the forest that was not a forest but a palace. “Arjuna was the greatest hero who ever lived.”
Aru thought that was a rather sweeping statement to make. The greatest? Really?
In front of her, a bow and arrow appeared on the ground.
Oh no.
She didn’t even know how to use a bow. Did you string it? Notch it? Aru cursed.
She should have paid more attention when she was watching Lord of the Rings last week. Maybe if she’d looked at how Legolas used a bow instead of, you know, just looking at Legolas, she would’ve been a little bit more prepared.
“Are you truly a Pandava brother, or are you just a liar?”
“What do you want me to do with this?” Aru said, gesturing at the bow.
“Simple, little pinch of mortality: If you aim true, you’ll escape this illusion. If you don’t, well, you’ll die. Don’t worry, we can make this whole ordeal go much more quickly. Watch.”
As he spoke, the fireflies began to grow brighter. Heat filled the air. Aru’s eyes widened.
The fireflies were made of actual fire.
…And Then Came the Horde of Godzilla-Size Fireflies
Silence settled over the forest.
“Mini!” screamed Aru.
Was this illusion different from the others? Was it a physical thing, or something living in her mind? Aru squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them quickly. Nothing. She thought the illusion would be like a creepy glitchy thing, as if one moment she’d see the illusion and the other moment she’d see the reality.
“Mini?” Aru called again.
On the ground, the bow and arrow taunted her.
“Hey, palace!” she called. “If you let me out, I’ll wash your windows!”
Still no reply.
“Fine, roll around in filth for all I care!”
Something burned her toe. “OW!”
It was one of the fireflies.