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Authors: Garon Whited
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the neck, I almost reclined rather than sat. I guess it’s more like a tilted couch than a chair. My only real objection was the lack of armrests. Still, it was easy to sit on while wearing a long piece of metal on one hip. That counts for a lot around here.
It was, however, stone. It wasn’t really all that comfortable, but it was impressive.
The carven, vertical-slit pupils each held a ruby of some size, cut in an elongated way to match the eyes. It made me wonder again about the mirrored, gold-plated ceiling. At least the ceiling was functional; with the firepits lit, the ceiling scattered light all through the room. These rubies were just decoration.
Or, can the mountain actually see through them? I don’t really know. What would it see? It lives so much more slowly than organic life... a lot of blurry things, flittering by? Or would it see perfectly and just react very slowly?
I settled in as well as I could and started shifting my time sense into a lower gear. The spell worked its way into the stone while I kept decreasing my personal time. The living mountain was at least a hundred thousand times faster than a typical piece of geology, but that’s still nowhere near the speed of us more animated types. So I relaxed, reached into the stone, and tried to take my time. Eventually, there was a sense of awareness, a contact, and we slowly started to move toward a synchronization.
Gradually, I began to feel the mountain as though I were part of it—a rather familiar sensation, actually. It seemed a strangely easy, if slow, process. The mountain and I merged, becoming part of each other again, and I remembered my way around inside it. I remembered what those four towers on the upper peak were for. I remembered the arrangement of the ventilation system, and the water system, and the layout of the streets. I recalled the hidden depths of the mountain passages and the secret of the canals.
A million little details flooded back to me, too many to retain, too much to recall in detail. For those moments that lasted hours, I held the whole of the city and everything beneath it within my mind, as perfect and clear as a single drop of water before it falls from a leaf.
Yes, this was my mountain. We had dreamed a city together. I dreamed the forms and it grew into them. We wandered together in my dreams while I taught it to be a city—how to grow, how to flow, how to breathe, how to live. What should grow back as thousands of feet and wheels and hands and shoulders rubbed against it. What to change and how to change to accommodate the fast-moving flesh.
It was happy that I was pleased with it. I was pleased it was happy. I concentrated on finding a bathroom, and we knew where all of them were, both public and private, above and below.
I let go of the spell and returned to a human time scale. It was already past noon, but I had learned—or remembered—much. Impressions remained of a thousand details, none of which I actually knew, but which would seem familiar to me when I saw them again.
And, strangely, the throne seemed a good deal more comfortable.
Who adapted, the stone or I? Interesting question. It certainly moved a bit, changing the angle, moving the horns closer together and tilting them up into an attack posture. They still didn’t make good armrests, but now I have something I can put my hands on while trying to look regal.
Cats and horses have their ears. Dragons have those two large horns coming out of the back of their heads. I have a headache, because I’m remembering things I have no business knowing.
Without hesitation, I headed to the royal chambers. The quick way: out through the rearmost door in the throne room—excuse me, “great hall”—and into a small sitting room. Then up a narrow spiral stair of stone, and through a private door into my study. Barren and empty for now, like the rest of my chambers, but I could envision how to furnish everything. The study, the bedroom, the receiving
It was, however, stone. It wasn’t really all that comfortable, but it was impressive.
The carven, vertical-slit pupils each held a ruby of some size, cut in an elongated way to match the eyes. It made me wonder again about the mirrored, gold-plated ceiling. At least the ceiling was functional; with the firepits lit, the ceiling scattered light all through the room. These rubies were just decoration.
Or, can the mountain actually see through them? I don’t really know. What would it see? It lives so much more slowly than organic life... a lot of blurry things, flittering by? Or would it see perfectly and just react very slowly?
I settled in as well as I could and started shifting my time sense into a lower gear. The spell worked its way into the stone while I kept decreasing my personal time. The living mountain was at least a hundred thousand times faster than a typical piece of geology, but that’s still nowhere near the speed of us more animated types. So I relaxed, reached into the stone, and tried to take my time. Eventually, there was a sense of awareness, a contact, and we slowly started to move toward a synchronization.
Gradually, I began to feel the mountain as though I were part of it—a rather familiar sensation, actually. It seemed a strangely easy, if slow, process. The mountain and I merged, becoming part of each other again, and I remembered my way around inside it. I remembered what those four towers on the upper peak were for. I remembered the arrangement of the ventilation system, and the water system, and the layout of the streets. I recalled the hidden depths of the mountain passages and the secret of the canals.
A million little details flooded back to me, too many to retain, too much to recall in detail. For those moments that lasted hours, I held the whole of the city and everything beneath it within my mind, as perfect and clear as a single drop of water before it falls from a leaf.
Yes, this was my mountain. We had dreamed a city together. I dreamed the forms and it grew into them. We wandered together in my dreams while I taught it to be a city—how to grow, how to flow, how to breathe, how to live. What should grow back as thousands of feet and wheels and hands and shoulders rubbed against it. What to change and how to change to accommodate the fast-moving flesh.
It was happy that I was pleased with it. I was pleased it was happy. I concentrated on finding a bathroom, and we knew where all of them were, both public and private, above and below.
I let go of the spell and returned to a human time scale. It was already past noon, but I had learned—or remembered—much. Impressions remained of a thousand details, none of which I actually knew, but which would seem familiar to me when I saw them again.
And, strangely, the throne seemed a good deal more comfortable.
Who adapted, the stone or I? Interesting question. It certainly moved a bit, changing the angle, moving the horns closer together and tilting them up into an attack posture. They still didn’t make good armrests, but now I have something I can put my hands on while trying to look regal.
Cats and horses have their ears. Dragons have those two large horns coming out of the back of their heads. I have a headache, because I’m remembering things I have no business knowing.
Without hesitation, I headed to the royal chambers. The quick way: out through the rearmost door in the throne room—excuse me, “great hall”—and into a small sitting room. Then up a narrow spiral stair of stone, and through a private door into my study. Barren and empty for now, like the rest of my chambers, but I could envision how to furnish everything. The study, the bedroom, the receiving
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