The Gauntlet - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Karuna Riazi is a born and raised New Yorker, with a loving, large extended family and the rather trying experience of being the eldest sibling in her particular clan. Besides pursuing a BA in English literature from Hofstra University, she is an online diversity advocate, blogger, and publishing intern. Karuna is fond of tea, baking new delectable treats for friends and family to relish, Korean dramas, and writing about tough girls forging their own paths toward their destinies. She is the author of The Gauntlet and The Battle.

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A trio of friends from New York City find themselves trapped inside a mechanical board game that they must dismantle in order to save themselves and generations of other children in this action-packed debut that's a steampunk Jumanji with a Middle Eastern flair.

Nothing can prepare you for The Gauntlet...

It didn't look dangerous, exactly. When twelve-year-old Farah first laid eyes on the old-fashioned board game, she thought it looked...elegant.

It is made of wood, etched with exquisite images-a palace with domes and turrets, lattice-work windows that cast eerie shadows, a large spider-and at the very center of its cover, in broad letters, is written: The Gauntlet of Blood and Sand.

The Gauntlet is more than a game, though. It is the most ancient, the most dangerous kind of magic. It holds worlds inside worlds. And it takes players as prisoners.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Gauntlet

CHAPTER ONE

FARAH HAD HER BACK pressed against the seat of the living room sofa, keeping a wary eye on the door as more party guests filed in while she played marbles with Ahmad.

“My turn, Farah apu!” Ahmad shouted with seven-year-old enthusiasm, startling strangers. “My turn!”

He sat beside her on the floor, a box of chenna murki placed in front of him. He offered her a bite of the soft, tender, marble-sized morsels of sweet cheese, which he’d chomp by the handful. “Want one?” he asked, offering her a piece.

Farah wrinkled her nose at the treat. She didn’t do sweets, not even the Bangladeshi kind that the rest of her family devoured. She liked to think of herself as a bit of a rebel, at least in this small way.

“Don’t you want to try some of the snacks Ma made? Samosas or pakoras. Or do you want to talk to Essie and Alex?” Farah asked. She was always in convincing mode when it came to Ahmad. “We haven’t seen them in a while.”

“He wants to play with you, Farah, that’s all,” Essie said, looking down at Farah from her seat on the sofa.

Farah’s only other friend, Alex, was seated in an armchair nearby, running a hand through his thick curls, his nose firmly planted in a book. He hadn’t spoken a word to her, or anyone else, since the quiet greeting he’d spared when he came through the door. While Alex had never been a big talker, this indifference was new.

Today was the first time Farah had seen either Essie or Alex in months. It felt as though their friendship had been . . . not dented, not shattered, nothing so terrible and threatening and nearly beyond repair. Just a little loosened out of its socket.

“Let’s play. You and me,” Ahmad said. “You can have the good marbles this time.”

Farah smiled at him. Ahmad was only seven, she had to remind herself when she got frustrated. Just as she had lost friends in their move from Queens to the Upper East Side, he had lost his friends too. Friends for Ahmad were harder to come by, given his issues. Even on her birthday, when she felt the universe owed her gentle understanding that she didn’t always want to play with her baby brother, she couldn’t deny him and his gap-toothed smile.

“Okay, one more game,” she said, drawing a chalk circle on the floor.

He arranged the marbles in a plus sign. “Me first.”

“Of course.”

He pressed his knuckle to the floor and shot a finger forward. His favorite cat’s-eye marble struck the others, expertly scattering them. Three flew out of the circle, and one hit a nearby shoe.

Aunt Zohra.

She hovered over Farah and Ahmad for a moment, then picked up the box of sweets from the floor, popping a few chenna murki into her mouth.

“My cheese marbles!” Ahmad shouted, leaping for the box.

Aunt Zohra’s thin lips formed what passed for a smile. On anyone else it might be a grimace. She was scarecrow thin and fence-post tall. She wore a salwar kameez without any embroidery, unlike the fancy, glittering mirrors that adorned Farah’s own sky blue hem and long sleeves. She handed Ahmad the box, and he greedily scooped up more sweets.

“Why don’t you join your guests, Farah?”

“I would, but . . .”

“I’m winning, Zohra Masi,” Ahmad explained.

“Ahmad,” Aunt Zohra said gently, “I need to celebrate with the birthday girl, and so do the others. We must not keep her guests waiting.” Aunt Zohra was pretty good with Ahmad, considering how infrequently Farah and Ahmad saw her; Aunt Zohra mostly kept to herself. And even when she visited the family, she didn’t talk much. Her mind always seemed to be elsewhere.

“They’re not really my guests. Mostly aunties, and kids from my new school. I’d rather stay here.” Farah thought that Aunt Zohra might understand. After all, she wasn’t much for socializing either.

Aunt Zohra flashed Farah another smile. “Well, it is your birthday. You should have some fun. My gift for you is waiting upstairs. We can open it after the party. I think you’ll find a good use for it though. Better than I ever did.”

“Is the present in your room, Zohra Masi? Can I get it? Can I open it?” Ahmad aimed a kick at Farah’s shin, which, from years of practice, she dodged. Today’s tantrum was nothing new. Trying to avoid just this scenario, Baba and Ma gave Ahmad gifts even on Farah’s birthday to keep his antics to a minimum.

He balled up his fists and bellowed, “Please! Please! Let me open it, Farah apu.” When he reached this point of excitement, you couldn’t even see his eyes anymore. He squeezed them so tight, folding them away in the same manner he might if he were wishing on birthday candles or trying to compress himself out of existence.

For a second, Farah thought his disappearing wouldn’t be such a bad thing: calling down a goblin king to whisk him off into the deep, dark depths of a fairy labyrinth or sidestepping himself into another dimension.

Still, it was Farah and Ahmad, Ahmad and Farah. She didn’t know what life would be without him.

“It’s a present for me. For my birthday. You got your present earlier. Those shiny new marbles,” Farah said. She knew that Ahmad’s ADHD meant he couldn’t always control himself. Baba said Ahmad had moments where he was trapped in his own overwhelming emotions, like being lost in a frustrating maze, and Farah had to be patient until he found his way out again.

Baba was in the dining room with Uncle Musafir talking about the new offices his software business would be settling into. He did not have to deal with Ahmad or his mazelike mind right this second.

“Ahmad, I have something to show you,” Aunt Zohra said, flashing her Turkish puzzle rings. They glimmered in the light, delicate on Aunt Zohra’s long, lanky fingers.

His eyes grew big. They had never played with Turkish puzzle rings before, but as a game-loving family, they had of course heard of them. Each ring was made up of interlocking thinner rings, forming a beautiful intricate design, like a series of golden waves. Aunt Zohra winked at Farah over his head.

“Wait! My marbles first!” Ahmad skittered away like one of his precious marbles, darting under a nearby couch to retrieve them. Aunt Zohra trailed after him. Farah felt a guilty, giddy rush of relief.

Aunt Zohra coaxed Ahmad out and toward the kitchen, where Ma was no doubt keeping busy. Farah watched her mother work through the pass-through window: She stirred the pots brimming with simmering sauces and curries and steaming rice, picked up each spice jar carefully lined up on the counter, and sprinkled the bright, colorful aromatics over the food.

The front door opened and closed, and more and more of the kids from her new school filed in through the doorway. Most of them were accompanied by their mothers, with a few harried-looking nannies bouncing younger siblings on their hips and locating odd corners to deposit overflowing diaper bags. They waved and said nice, polite, meaningless things.

Farah knew she should go greet...