Th
e novella, written by Amira of the K. Makansi trio, tells the story of Soren’s life in Okaria and how he came to be a member of the Resistance. Readers will learn more about Soren’s rivalry with Vale and his friendship with Dr. James Rhinehouse and Jeremiah Sayyid. Weaving in equal parts politics, music, science fiction, and a coming of age story, THE PRELUDE provides an in-depth look into one of our readers’ favorite characters in the world of SEEDS.
EXCERPT:
My hand hovers over the keys. I hesitate. Close my eyes and visualize the music, black ink scattered in elegant lines across the page. I find the first note instinctively. When I press the ivory key and the hammer strikes, I feel it reverberate in my chest. The sound hangs in the air like a drop of honey on the tongue.
The first four stanzas are fluid like water. They wash over me in waves as they echo from the instrument. When my right hand joins in, I feel as though I have leapt into a cool, clean pond on the hottest day in summer. I am drowning in relief. I can almost feel the water rushing through my hair and across my skin, buoying and caressing me. It’s peace and contentment. It’s power, energy, motion. It’s falling and floating. I revel in the force of the music, the control I exert over this instrument. It feels like twisting and rolling in lapping waves.
I sail through the first quarter, relishing as always the simple beginning, the first, major key arpeggio. There is nothing so climactic, so tremendous, as the build and emotion in this piece. I know it so well I don’t have to think to play it. I feel the music flowing around me, and I allow my body to respond in kind. My only focus is channeling the music, pushing myself through it and allowing it to cleanse me.
I dance down the keyboard, through the final arpeggio, and come to rest on the last notes, three lonely chimes that might as well be a death knell. It occurs to me that I need to breathe. I become aware of my surroundings. The audience, hushed, tense. My shoulders and back, slouched over the keys as though I had died along with the music. The geometric precision of the arching auditorium above me. The blue sky shining through the glass ceiling. The bleak, hollow pulses of the dying song.
The audience erupts in cheers. I stand, out of breath, as if surfacing from too long spent underwater. There’s a ringing in my ears that’s swelled up in the empty space left by the music. It sounds like bells. I always have trouble disengaging after a performance. This time is no different. It takes me several seconds to remember that I am expected to bow, to wave, to smile. I feel the pinpricks of sweat on my forehead, and have to fight the urge to brush them away. When I stand, my foot almost gets tangled in the legs of the piano bench. My smile falters, and I have to catch myself to stop from falling. I’ve never been comfortable with the moments before and after. Only the music keeps me performing.
I step up to the edge of the platform and stare out at the faces in the audience. My mother, Cara, sitting in the chancellor’s place of honor next to the podium. Odin, my father, sits next to her. The other contestants sit in the front row of the audience. Valerian Orleán, clapping reluctantly. I flash my teeth at him—he knows I just beat him. Hana Lyon, a girl a year younger than us, and every bit as talented, smiles at me. In the light filtering down from above, her skin is the color of dark honey. Mallory Flint, a year older, in her last year of eligibility for this contest, her face expressionless. I know she was hoping to win, for once, but her performance pales in comparison to the others on stage.
Vale fancies himself my only true competition, but his performances are dull and mechanical. Technically perfect, I’ll give him that, but he plays like he’s keeping time with a metronome. He has no sense of musicianship. If anyone beats me today, it’ll be Hana, whose performance of one of the Sector’s composers was unparalleled. She did it better than I could.
I remember, finally, to smile and wave. I’ve been standing here for too long. I bow, and hurry ungracefully off the stage. I take my seat next to Vale, who acknowledges me with a terse nod. We have nothing to say to each other. We never do. Hana, though, leans over to whisper in my ear.
“Beat the pants off the rest of us, Soren!”
I smile.
We hope this whets your appetite for THE REAPING, due Fall 2014.
We’re damn near giddy and can’t wait to hear what you think!