Chapter One: Over the River
It was early in the month of Azhord; snow not yet settled upon the crags of Lakeheight House. An unoriginal name, it would have to be said, but nonetheless descriptive – the house towered high above the lake that spanned the entirety of the seventh level, overlooking a large part of the level from its precarious perch. I was kneeling in the small, cushioned alcove, peering anxiously through the thick glass – if winter had set in, there was no possibility of my leaving. Thankfully, I could distinguish no sign of that happening – the lake below was a deep and sparkling blue, pinpricks of light darting to and fro in wide swathes across its expanse in a joyful, ephemeral dance of light. I have to say, it matched my mood exactly.
Before the flooding of the lake in the early months of spring –naturally, this did not always occur, but was common enough-, my family would leave for the first, or Dome level of Yliakum, as the Nolthrir who we relied on for sustenance could hardly support us through the long months of winter. Generally, we would leave in the last months of the year; doubtlessly a relief for the Nolthrir who refused to accept more than a pittance for their produce. We –by the pronoun I refer to myself and my father- would stay with some of our numerous relations in the agricultural lands of Ojaveda. This year, the quarantine had forced my father to reconcile himself with the idea of a journey to Hydlaa: naturally, I myself could not have been more delighted. I smiled, of course, when I heard the news - which was, as he reminded me, with a tone carrying a little of reproach, a rare occurrence. And this time, I was finally permitted to stay behind until Azhord, while my father travelled ahead to arrange things in Hydlaa - which also, as you can imagine, proved a source of no little anticipation for me.
Naturally, I stayed overlong. You may, if you like, blame the library. But today, I would finally seal the house, and leave for the first level: as the rumours told, a place of no little excitement! Grinning at the thought, I scrambled from the alcove, pausing only to grab my bags, which were resting alongside me. My room was sparsely furnished (by my own choice), a small, snug enclosure of square stone slabs fitted neatly together without so much as a crack. The walls, however, were covered in hangings, of the type I liked best – the more stylised art typical of the Dome level. My bed was neatly made (uncommon), a blocky construction of polished wood that seemed more akin to a vaguely bed-shaped boulder than conventional furnishing. Giving my room one last, cursory glance, I swung myself through the doorway in one, exuberant bound, before closing the dark, wooden door, and clicking the metal latch into place with a quiet “snick”. The grey stone staircase below was spartan, untypical of our house, though the enclosing walls were lined with a number of small –and excruciatingly detailed- examples of Nolthrir portraiture. At the thought of those lined, weathered faces being relatives of mine I quirked a small smile. My father and I could not have been more unlike them.
The hall was equally empty, but in this case panelled with a rich, dark-coloured wood, finely shaped into whorls and branches. The small door that led to my father’s room, devoted entirely to experimentation, was slightly ajar, exposing a small sliver of darkness. I smiled as I closed the door – my father had always been fond of his prisms. The four other doors were firmly closed and unyielding to my tentative push, while the fireplace alone showed any sign of life, as the fire leapt and crackled in bursts and insidious crackles of light and sound, roaring quietly away in its stone alcove. I left the fire; soon enough it would turn to ashes. The remainder of the room was quiet and still, what few pets could stand the chaos of Lakeheight House having been removed by my father in his preparations for journeying to Hydlaa – as I soon would. I turned to the inconspicuous-looking doorway, concealed in a small nook of the panelling- I would be taking the less commonly-travelled route upwards, to the sixth level, rather than our regular journey to the village below. The bulky structure swung open easily on well-oiled hinges with my soft touch, and I stepped outside.
The way ahead was clear: a path of dizzyingly tiny proportions, strung across a mass of boulders and crags – and below, the coldly-illuminated lake. Far, far below. Giving myself a quick grin -I was trying to avoid what I’d wished for-, I stepped out onto the well-cobbled path. The road was remarkably easy, even myself, burdened with a large number of saddlebags (my father had also taken our rivnaks), finding it a smooth path. Below my feet, the river burbled through a mass of piled boulders on its way to the lake level, cascading in sheets of chill water across the path, while above, I could vaguely make out the shape of the ridges of the sixth level. Bracing myself against the cold, I dashed hurriedly across the bridge, under which the river ran, my feet scrambling madly for purchase on the slippery stone. Finally, I reached the opposite side, my clothing soaked with the chilling water of the river, and resumed my former walk, pacing up the flight of steps carved deeply into one massive boulder. I glanced over my shoulder for a moment- and gasped. The house was so distant now, the home in which I had resided during my whole life seeming a mere, insignificant speck compared to the massive ridges above – which I had yet to reach. Stifling a sigh, I began to scramble upwards.
