Hidden Energies

Twelve minutes remained.

Niko, currently leaning back in his chair, reflected that although he rarely felt sure about much anything, he could at least be confident of that. After all, the contraption glimmering peacefully high above his head was likely the most perfect timekeeper in the whole world.

An "armillary sphere" is the proper term for these things, though everyone at the Academy simply called it "The Ticker." It was an intricate mess of interlocking brass rings that represented planets, moons, major comets, or outer celestial spheres. It told you all astronomical information you could possibly need while working magic, the time included -- at least once you learned how to make sense of it all. And so it was now definitely thirty-five minutes past midnight.

True to its name, the mechanism discreetly filled the silence with delicate, slick ticks. Considering the weight of the whole setup (the outer rings a good twenty feet in diameter) it was astonishing how light that ticking was. And the thing wasn't even itself magical. It had all been carefully designed and crafted by meticulous silver-whiskered men in golden pince-nez, solely with the use of mathematics, metallurgy, and patience. This mechanism, suspended from the glass ceiling of the Great Conservatory of the Vallnord Academy, was quite deservedly famous nationwide.

And its ticking was now the only sound in this vast space... okay, not really. There was also the faint squeaking of Diane's pen.

Niko moved his eyes from the Ticker down to the girl seated across the table corner and absorbed in the pile of notes in front of her. Niko smiled. Every other student at the Academy, when focused on schoolwork, generally looked either worried or frustrated. But Diane, now as always, was calmly leaning forward in her chair, body in graceful, effortless balance, face partly covered by light blond hair -- hair that seemed almost silvery where it poured over her shoulder, against the stark black velvet of her uniform. A tiny dimple above her right eyebrow was just about the only thing that betrayed any mental effort on her part.

He yawned, cleared his throat, and looked around the Conservatory. In this great round room, all was very familiar: the marble floor with its pale colourful tiles; the heavy bookshelves; the walls and the ceiling, all plate glass on a cast iron skeleton. "Knowledge and Virtue," the school's motto, shined at him reliably in gilded all-caps from above the door. And yet the place felt alien. It simply shouldn't be this still. Of course, people would naturally default to a furtive silence when working here -- the cathedral-like acoustics demanded that -- but there is always a distinct sound to many people being quiet together. With nobody around, the reality of all things seemed eerily altered.

The Conservatory was always gas-lit, and with that light reflecting off the glass, Niko could see nothing of the early-spring landscape outside. All the world was obliterated beyond the mirror panes. He and Diane might as well be the last people on earth.

What a thought. He looked back at her. And this is when she lifted her eyes, their probing blue meeting his. Well, it looked like he now had to say something.

"Weird here, isn't it," he ventured.

"How so?" The tone of her voice matched her poise, a little remote and formal, though far from dismissive.

"I mean, the Conservatory. It's just so different so late at night."

She looked around. "Yes, I suppose so. I don't know, I'm kind of used to it."

"What, you mean you come here often? At this hour?"

"Not often, but sometimes. It's a good place to work."

He snorted. "Of course."

"Of course what?"

He gave her a grin which he hoped was charmingly mocking. "You're just the most perfect student in the entire Academy, aren't you?"

She tilted her head forward just a little bit, and produced a light smirk that he could only describe as gently condescending. Niko returned with a laugh, then stretched, stood up, and started pacing around. This was Diane for you. No matter how good or how terrible a joke you made, it was very difficult to make her laugh out -- or even show her teeth -- always just a stoic half-smile. But he liked her, actually. Sure, she was a little intimidating. When he had been accepted into the Academy, he'd felt like an impostor -- a talentless hack from a small town that had somehow lucked his way among the nation's most promising young magicians --until he gradually found out that everyone else felt pretty much the same way. Everyone except her -- nah, she was definitely in her right place, confident natural competence and like five generations of alumni hanging out in the branches of her family tree. To be honest he'd felt a pang of pride when she proposed they do this project together, in class the week before.

Presently she tossed her notebook aside. It glided on the table and stopped by the small stone bowl that was the reason of them being here at such dreadful hour. She glanced at Niko. He had left his uniform jacket tossed carelessly over his chair, leaving him in his white shirt. She watched it drape around his body as he stretched, pacing, with his back to her. He wasn't bulky really, but his body had a nice, healthy definition to it. He'd been on his school's five-a-side fireball team back in his hometown, he had mentioned that. Brown hair waved down almost to his shoulders. Diane's eyes narrowed, and she was suddenly deep in thought. She never could quite guess what was going on in his head. He was thoughtful, quiet, a little nervous. But he had this playful side to him too, surprisingly bright and upbeat when at ease. Who was he, really? Perhaps she could find out. That little contingency of hers... well, steady now. First -- she glanced at the Ticker; five minutes remained -- first, the midnight catalyst.

"Alright," she said, getting up, "let's get ready."

He walked back and stood by the table opposite from her. Right between them, in the middle of the table, stood the small stone bowl filled with coarse powder, ashen-red like dull cinders. It was a generic germinal powder, the kind that gardeners sprinkle on young plants to help with their growth. But more importantly, it was their trimester project for the Intermediate Alchemy class.

They had spent the better part of the last two days carefully grinding its ingredients, roasting them on a kerosene stove, blending them with the exact timing required. Now there it stood, almost ready. All it needed now was the catalyst.

See, you can't just mix together ingredients of a potion, powder, or any other magical compound, and just expect them to work -- that would be like stitching together an animal from leftover bits at your local butcher's and expecting it to trot off to the nearest pasture. No, obviously first you need to imbue your concoction with living magic. This magic you take from any object, being, or event with magical significance -- your catalyst -- and channel it in. The mind of a magician is the channelling agent. This is the bread and butter of most people in the industry. Also all this is really basic stuff that you have learned at school, I'm not sure why I'm dwelling on this.

A germinal powder, which acts on vital forces, obviously needs a vital catalyst -- which was a bit of a complication. Any sensible first-year student of the Vallnord Academy always picked something with a fire catalyst, and then went off to Zargyll, the fire demon that dwells in the basement under the kitchens, who would trade you a nice burst of magical flame for a bottle of methanol. But no, Diane insisted they do this thing instead. Because, she said, boring old germinal powder belongs to a broader class of allaying materials, substances which help overcome obstructions to potential, which ease out hidden energies of living things; and is therefore a springboard into things which are not boring at all. Oh well.

Fortunately, if you don't mind skimping on sleep, there is a broadly available catalyst which can be channelled for vital magic -- and that is good, old, reliable midnight. Humans have always sensed its power. When life is at its stillest, when the sky is at its blackest, when your world turns its back on the sun and faces the ageless void -- that's when you do magic, vital or otherwise.

Just don't go by the clock. These new-fangled time zones that put entire countries on the same hour are as relevant to midnight as meridians are to mountain ranges. The actual midnight over the Vallnord Academy is at 0:47 local time. The Ticker can tell you that, too.

This time had now come. Diane nodded, and closed her eyes. Niko followed suit.

Alright:

Loosen your muscles. Imagine that the crown of your head is hanging from a string. Relax your breath. Feel your awareness expand. Sense and note the bowl of powder on the table. Expand, root yourself, let the mind glide over the marble floor, beyond the glass walls, into the night... feel its chill. Feel the movement of the world. This is ancient magic, and very strong. You can sense it easily. Midnight, the witching hour, the solar nadir. Familiar sensation builds up. Magical energy surges all around you. The tide comes. Now feel the power build up inside you, accumulate, and... falter.

Wait, no.

Niko's fingers twitched. He cleared his mind, inhaled, and tried again.

Draw. Draw the energy from around you, look for that vital current in the magic, a tingling in the spine... I said, look for the tingling in the spine. Spine...?

Niko opened his eyes. Across the table, Diane's hands were extended away from her body as she was struggling to gather the energy in her -- but from her scowl he could read that she wasn't having any success, either.

"What the shit?" he asked. The time was definitely right. He could feel the midnight, he could feel its overall surge, it's just its vital component was... bloodless somehow, listless and subdued.

Diane opened her eyes. "Well, this is strange," she said, voice oddly controlled.

"Is something blocking us?"

"What would be blocking us? We have the right time, and..." She looked up to the Ticker, to the brass earth making its round among the rings...

"Ah. Okay. I see what's wrong," she said.

"Well?"

She pointed to the mechanism. "Both moons are on the wane."

Niko looked up, discerned the two minor rings, and groaned.

A waxing moon signifies growth, increase, abundance. A waning moon signifies decay, decline, rest.

Two waning moons at the same time mean that you just aren't getting any vital energy at all from any astronomical catalyst, simply none.

He slumped to his chair and buried his fingers in his hair. "Well, we're screwed." Diane didn't respond -- she grabbed her suede postman bag and rummaged around. "I told you we should have just made some liquid flame and ran it by Zargyll!"

There was some definite sense of purpose about Diane. From the bag, she finally produced a book -- a small and thin cloth-bound tome, the cover a faded carmine and the pages well yellowed. She looked at Niko, as if measuring him up. It was a while before she spoke.

"The project is due tomorrow at noon. We still have time to come up with a different catalyst."

He looked at her doubtfully. To be honest, catalysts were something that you studied in later years. Less advanced students almost always limited themselves to the few simple ones everyone knew, fuelling Zargyll's methanol habit.

She circled the table and took the chair right next to him. She leaned forward with a conspirational look.

"There's the stream outside. Running water is always good for vital magic."

He crossed his arms. "Man, channelling water sucks so hard though."

"Yes, well, it's tedious. We'd have to start really early in the morning to make it by noon." She clicked her tongue. "But... there's another way, one that's way quicker and way easier."

"Okay? What is it?"

She leafed through her book. "I'll show you. But just so you know, it's explicitly illegal by the Academy's rules, so we'll have to pretend we used the stream."

Diane, the model student, advocating illegal shortcuts? He raised his eyebrows and smirked. "What are you getting us into? And what is this book, anyway?"

She found the page she had been looking for. "It's just a regular compendium of common vital catalysts. It was published decades ago, though, in a different political climate. Some stuff here is not entirely in line with current ministry guidelines." She now looked at him keenly. "So my proposition is here. Just don't freak out, okay?"

"Okay, well, you are kind of freaking me out right now. What is it you have there, human sacrifice?"

Something like a smile lurked about her eyes. "That would be an interesting way to put it." She handed him the book.

He glanced to the top of the open page. It read:

49. Oak Mistletoe -- the common mistletoe has powerful magical significance when growing on oak trees (esp. durmast oak, but also white oak, black oak, water oak, valley oak, holly oak). When harvested using...

"Mistletoe? You want to climb an oak?"

"Not that," she tapped the page impatiently. "I mean number 54."

His eyes skimmed down. He read the entry number 54. It was very short and to the point, but to be honest, he sort of got distracted right at the title.

54. Shared Orgasm -- when practitioners of magic engage in sexual intercourse, they can use the resulting climax as a powerful and easily applied vital catalyst. Possibly the oldest trick in this book.

Okay uh.

Did she say 54?

"Did you say 54?"

"Yup."

54. Shared Orgasm

Oh. Um.

"Just to be clear," he dropped the book on the table, "you mean we charge our powder with sex magic."

"Yup." Her eyes were still fixed on his, with perfect calmness.

"You mean... us two...?"

He vaguely indicated them both with his index finger. She vaguely twisted her wrist to indicate the room, and contained within it the utter lack of anyone else whom this could possibly concern.

She wasn't sure what reaction she had been expecting. He was clearly caught off guard, but a rising blush and a hint of a smile creeping up his face looked like good signs. Nothing to do but wait for him to respond. Her chair creaked loudly as she leaned back, her elbows around its back.

As she did this he was still processing the proposal (from a very pretty and likeable girl who he had classified as out of his reach without even thinking too much about it) and also reconciling her poised formality with the brashness of the rule infringement that she had just suggested (this Academy was supposed to foster both knowledge and a staunch moral code -- the Chancellor had insisted on this point in his speech at the start of the year, gilded toga and all!). And now, with the creak of the chair, he became very acutely aware of her body just within an arm's reach, the long smooth legs in dark knee-high socks crossing under her skirt, an inch of bare skin of her lower back where her shirt had freed itself from the waistband, the smooth rise and fall of her breasts, snugly draped in crisp white cotton, the fabric tightening slightly as she drew in her breath—

He blinked and tried to think of an answer that would eloquently touch on all these points.

"Huh," he said.

Now she hesitated. Had she misread him? "I mean, we can do the stream thing, of course," she said quickly. "I just thought that this way would be quicker, and, you know..." Amber light reflected in her blue eyes. "...fun. For us."

He swallowed and leaned rapidly forward, hair flying into his eyes. "No yes, I agree! I mean..." he impatiently flicked the hair away, "I think it would be a lot of fun too. Let's, yeah." He groped for words. "Let's do it." He heard himself say this, and felt like he was falling.

Relief and excitement both washed over her. This time when she smiled, he even saw her teeth. "Okay." She stood up. "See, I was hoping you would say that."

He cleared his throat. "Okay. So, how do we do this? Is there any special ritual or something?" He tried to appear casual and collected, even as his body felt like dancing and screaming. Diane! Shared orgasms! Yes, yes, holy shit yes! She leaned on the table right next to him.

"Nope. It's very old, very simple magic. You just place whatever you're channelling into near you, acknowledge it before you start, and then just... do the usual thing." Something belatedly occurred to her. "You've done this before, or...?"

"Well, yeah..." Back in his home town, Niko did in fact manage to get on friendly enough relations with the stationmaster's daughter to persuade clothes off her; but that was a while ago. "Not since I've been here, though."

"Then you should remember the basic mechanics. Let's proceed." And with that, she slipped out of her left shoe and reached for her sock. He stared.

"Wait, you mean... like, right here?" She gave a little shrug. "But..." he looked to the Conservatory's massive, copper-studded door, which was slightly ajar, so that outside he could make out the dark staircase and the hallway leading up to it.

"All the times I've been here at this hour, I've never seen anyone come by." She extended her arm towards the door and scowled in mental strain. Fifty feet away, the hinges groaned, moved as in draft, and the door closed with a heavy, echoing click. "And even if someone does, we should hear them coming. Hopefully, they won't hear us coming." With one smooth move, she pulled off her sock, put her bare foot on the floor, and then yelped as the marble sent a cold shock up her body. "O...kay, maybe let's not do it on the floor." She looked around, then tapped at the table. "How about here? The table's large and really stable."

He gave her an incredulous smile. "But... everyone works here!" These tables, very wide and long enough to fit fifteen people on one side, were where all the students spent a lot of their time. Even now they were littered with remnants of the day's activity, with odd discarded pieces of scribbled paper, pencil shavings, and stains of spilled potions. On the table right next to theirs a gleaming thaumometer sat, its many tubes and wires still cooling down from the work a group of third year students had finished doing on it just half an hour before.

"Yeah." She lifted herself up and sat on the table top, and proceeded to free her other leg. "And ever since tonight, whenever you're working here yourself, and you get tired, you'll just glance up from your notes, and remember the time we had sex right on this table, and people will ask you what you're smiling at, and you'll have to be like, 'nothing.'"

As she was speaking, her voice got lower, and her smirk grew wider, and her naked shin was almost touching his knee, and the buttons of her shirt came undone, one by one, under her long fingers; and this was a terrible idea and he was pretty sure that they would end up arrested for gross indecency; and he didn't care.

He sprung up, knocking over his chair, grabbed her face forcefully with both hands and kissed her hard on the mouth. Surprised, she would draw back, had he not held her firmly in place -- and after an instant, startle melted into delight. In the force of his lips pressing on hers, in the uneven shortness of his breath, in the clattering of the chair echoing off the glass walls, she recognized the fierce strength of his want for her, a strength that overpowered his anxiety, a strength that he no longer sought to conceal. That's why the magic demands for the pleasure to be shared, she thought. You need to put your hidden self on the line. You admit another person into your inner space. You give and you take. Growth demands vulnerability. Here's the vital power -- no hiding, just you in your real, raw nature.