Aru Shah and the End of Time (Pandava Quartet #1)(66)

“How did you know we were the daughters of gods?” Mini asked.

“You reek of it,” said Shukra, not unkindly.

Aru discreetly sniffed her armpits. Still good. She mentally high-fived herself.

“The scent of godhood does not lurk in the pits of humans,” hissed Shukra.

“Oh.”

“The scent of godhood lies in the burdens that hover above you. Pungent and powerful stenches they are,” he said. “Each of you has a past, present, and future that was robbed from you. I, too, was robbed. Hear my tale. Then you can decide if you still wish to cross the Bridge of Forgetting.”

Two chairs made of ice swiveled out of the ground and Shukra gestured for them to sit down. Aru didn’t really want to, but the chair didn’t care. Every time she stepped away, it slid a little closer, finally tripping her so she fell into the seat. The chair was so cold it burned her skin. Beside her, Mini’s teeth chattered.

Shukra eyed himself in one of his five mirrors. “Do you know why I’m cursed to be forgotten?” he asked.

“Run-in with a bad demon?” guessed Aru.

Mini glared at her.

“If only it were that simple,” said Shukra.

Aru really wanted to kick the chair and get out of here. Shukra seemed even more dangerous than the dogs that had guarded the entrance to the Kingdom of Death. There was something too…quiet about him. As if he knew he’d already won and was just taking his time.

“I killed the one person who could stand to look at me.”

Stand to look at him? Uh, it wasn’t like he was hard on the eyes.

“My wife,” said Shukra. “She loved me, and so I killed her.”





The Tale of Shukra


It was said that, when I was born, the sun was so revolted it went into hiding for a full month. Scars riddled my skin. My smile was gruesome. But though I was ugly, I was a good king. Beloved, even. What I could not perfect in my body, I tried to perfect in my mind.

For many years, I was ashamed to show myself to my subjects. I chose to rule from the shadows. But I could not wed in darkness. When my bride first looked upon me, her smile never wavered. She held her palm to my cheek and said, “Our love is what will make us beautiful.”

And so it did.

The changes in my appearance were small. So small that at first I did not recognize them, for I was not used to gazing at myself in the mirror.

Four years passed, and by then her love had made me more handsome. And my wife? She was resplendent. The moon stayed out longer just to gaze upon her. The sun lingered to witness her grace. I no longer had the kind of ugly face that incited horror or pity, but now I was made unremarkable by my passing good looks.

I wanted more. I started noting the changes in my appearance each day. My wife assured me that, as our love grew, so would our beauty. For her, beauty went hand in hand with joy.

I grew impatient.

I installed mirrors everywhere, even in the floors. I made checklists by which I might daily appraise my altering visage. I was continually discarding my clothes and trying new outfits. I neglected my people.

I began to shun my wife. Every time I saw her, I was filled with fury. Why should she grow more beautiful than I? She, who had so much beauty to begin with.

One day I confronted her. “Do you still love me?” I asked.

She did not meet my gaze. “How can I love someone I no longer know? You have changed, my king. I would have loved you until Time itself had ended. Perhaps I still could, if you would only—”

But I did not hear beyond her first words.

I do not remember doing what I did.

It was only when the red had cleared from my eyes that I saw her corpse. I tried to tear at my skin. To burn every trace of her love—my ill-gotten beauty—from my body. But it was too late. I could not escape her love, so freely given, even in her final moments.

I smashed every mirror. Broke every window. Drained every pond.

And yet I could not escape the truth of what I had been given, and what I had lost.

*

When Shukra finished speaking, tears ran down his cheeks.

“Now I live surrounded by the memory of my mistakes,” he said, gesturing at the mirrors that accompanied him. “Without these, the snow would steal my memories, as it does for all who visit here.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mini softly.

Aru said nothing. Part of her did pity him, but the other part was disgusted. He’d killed someone who loved him, someone who had given him a special gift. He was selfish.

Shukra brought his hands closer together. “It is time for you to make your choice. Should you not succeed in crossing the bridge, you will fall into one of the fires of hell and be forced into the next life.”

“You mean…we’ll die?” asked Mini.

“Oh yes,” said Shukra, waving his hand as if Mini had asked something as casual as Do you have chocolate ice cream?

“How do we succeed?” asked Aru.

“To cross the Bridge of Forgetting, you must pay the toll.”

“And that is…?” asked Aru.

“You must sacrifice a part of yourself: your memories. Give them to me and leave lighter. As you can see, only the outline of the bridge is visible. Your memories are needed to form the rest of the bridge.”

“Our memories?” repeated Mini. “Why would you want that?”