another, all taken from their parents and brought to this place. Many are from Iraq; others come here from Kuwait, Qatar, Syria. There is even a girl from Scotland. They have in common only their Sumerian bloodline—and their determination to win.
Only one of them can.
From these 100 rigorously trained potentials, a single Player will be selected.
The Player will train even harder, will prepare, will wait for Endgame. Those not chosen will live to serve him. And, somewhere in the desert,another cohort, several years younger than Kala’s, eagerly awaits its turn, for when that Player ages out. Somewhere else, a hundred weeping four-year-olds struggle to understand what’s become of their lives. They too will grow up to Play this game, and after them more children will be taken from their homes, more children will train, more children will wait.
The cycle has played out for millennia, and it will never end. Not until Endgame finally comes, and the chosen Player gets her chance to Play.
No one knows when the choice will come, and no one knows why. You simply wake up one day to discover that one of your own is gone, and that is the Player. Which means you are not.
This, at least, is what they have heard.
Each of the bloodlines has its own strategy for picking a Player. Kala knows she is supposed to believe the Sumerian way is the best. But it’s difficult, when no one seems quite sure what the Sumerian way is .
Alad claims not to care, but Kala can see him straining to be the best. She can see how much he wants it, how he believes that his efforts will be enough. And sometimes the minders do pick the strongest in the cohort, sometimes the smartest. But sometimes the choice makes no obvious sense. They have picked scrawny Players and foolish ones, saintly Players who care only for their bloodline and egomaniacal Players who will Play only for themselves. The last Player was chosen six years ago, after the one before that died unexpectedly in training, a dagger through his chest. Kala remembers when the girl was chosen, remembers the swirling rumors: she was immune to pain; she was a record-breaking weight lifter; she was chosen by the flip of a coin. Kala tries not to listen to gossip, but she can’t ignore the chatter about what is to come. The current Player is about to age out—a new one is needed. So the choice will come soon, they know that much. There is nothing they can do but train and wonder and wait.
And, of course, speculate endlessly about the choice: when it will come, how it will be made. This is the favorite hobby of Kala’s cohorts, and they never shut up about it.
Kala doesn’t play along. She’s never seen the point. She likes that Alad doesn’t see it either.
Friendship in the camp is not encouraged, but neither is it forbidden. And somehow, without realizing it, Kala lets Alad become her friend. They begin to count on each other; more than that, they begin to know each other. When they spar, she can anticipate his movements—recognize a feint, block a punch before he throws it. At meals, Alad now reaches without asking for her untouched saltah, at least when the stew is made with goat, which she detests. When he can get his hands on some halvah, he always snags extra for her, though never enough to satisfy her sweet tooth. They don’t talk about anything that matters, but then, no one talks about things that matter. Nothing is permitted to matter except their training. Not their hopes for the future, and certainly not their faded memories of the past.
Everyone has at least a few that they hold precious and secret.
Kala remembers a red stuffed elephant named Balih, and she remembers her mother’s smell, a comforting waft of saffron and nutmeg.
At least, she thinks it was her mother.
She prefers to believe that.
Even without talking, Kala can sense Alad’s moods. When he broods, she can almost see the dark cloud hovering over him—and when he brightens up, he nearly sparkles. He
Only one of them can.
From these 100 rigorously trained potentials, a single Player will be selected.
The Player will train even harder, will prepare, will wait for Endgame. Those not chosen will live to serve him. And, somewhere in the desert,another cohort, several years younger than Kala’s, eagerly awaits its turn, for when that Player ages out. Somewhere else, a hundred weeping four-year-olds struggle to understand what’s become of their lives. They too will grow up to Play this game, and after them more children will be taken from their homes, more children will train, more children will wait.
The cycle has played out for millennia, and it will never end. Not until Endgame finally comes, and the chosen Player gets her chance to Play.
No one knows when the choice will come, and no one knows why. You simply wake up one day to discover that one of your own is gone, and that is the Player. Which means you are not.
This, at least, is what they have heard.
Each of the bloodlines has its own strategy for picking a Player. Kala knows she is supposed to believe the Sumerian way is the best. But it’s difficult, when no one seems quite sure what the Sumerian way is .
Alad claims not to care, but Kala can see him straining to be the best. She can see how much he wants it, how he believes that his efforts will be enough. And sometimes the minders do pick the strongest in the cohort, sometimes the smartest. But sometimes the choice makes no obvious sense. They have picked scrawny Players and foolish ones, saintly Players who care only for their bloodline and egomaniacal Players who will Play only for themselves. The last Player was chosen six years ago, after the one before that died unexpectedly in training, a dagger through his chest. Kala remembers when the girl was chosen, remembers the swirling rumors: she was immune to pain; she was a record-breaking weight lifter; she was chosen by the flip of a coin. Kala tries not to listen to gossip, but she can’t ignore the chatter about what is to come. The current Player is about to age out—a new one is needed. So the choice will come soon, they know that much. There is nothing they can do but train and wonder and wait.
And, of course, speculate endlessly about the choice: when it will come, how it will be made. This is the favorite hobby of Kala’s cohorts, and they never shut up about it.
Kala doesn’t play along. She’s never seen the point. She likes that Alad doesn’t see it either.
Friendship in the camp is not encouraged, but neither is it forbidden. And somehow, without realizing it, Kala lets Alad become her friend. They begin to count on each other; more than that, they begin to know each other. When they spar, she can anticipate his movements—recognize a feint, block a punch before he throws it. At meals, Alad now reaches without asking for her untouched saltah, at least when the stew is made with goat, which she detests. When he can get his hands on some halvah, he always snags extra for her, though never enough to satisfy her sweet tooth. They don’t talk about anything that matters, but then, no one talks about things that matter. Nothing is permitted to matter except their training. Not their hopes for the future, and certainly not their faded memories of the past.
Everyone has at least a few that they hold precious and secret.
Kala remembers a red stuffed elephant named Balih, and she remembers her mother’s smell, a comforting waft of saffron and nutmeg.
At least, she thinks it was her mother.
She prefers to believe that.
Even without talking, Kala can sense Alad’s moods. When he broods, she can almost see the dark cloud hovering over him—and when he brightens up, he nearly sparkles. He
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