Chapter 22
XXII
WILL CAN BE USED BY THE ONE TO WHOM IT IS GIVEN, and them alone.
It is a foundational truth of the Hierarchy, the underpinning of almost every rule, every method and every calculation I have been taught over the past year and a half.
Something mentioned only in passing even to the Sevenths at the Academy, so self-evident has its truth been since the discovery of ceding by the Catenan Republic one hundred and fifty years ago.
I’ve had much of the carriage ride here to think about what the nameless stranger told me, back at the compound.
“Adoption.” The ability to not only sense other people’s imbued Will, but to take it.
Even after everything I have seen, I would have dismissed it as madness were it not for the fact that I have experienced what he described.
The extrasensory perception that saved me during the Iudicium when the Anguis were hunting us.
And then the same again, just before Lanistia attacked me at the Aurora Columnae.
But perhaps most importantly, on top of that tower with Emissa’s blade embedded in my stomach. I’ve tried so hard not to think about that night, that moment, that I’d almost forgotten.
Falling. Flailing desperately, instinctively, for anything to haul myself back up.
The Heart of Jovan snapping into my hand.
So over the past half hour, I’ve resolved myself to the truth. Used the awkward silence since Livia’s outburst to focus on the carriage beneath us. For the first time, really tried to recapture that sense that I first had in those nightmarish hours after running the Labyrinth.
It took a while, and it’s faint, even now.
But it’s there.
The noonday sun is blistering as I swing down onto crunching gravel.
I’m greeted with a sharply sloping village that has sparkling views out over a protected bay.
Our carriage has stopped on a clifftop above all the houses; beyond the white stone roofs below, the shallow water is clear and calm and a deep, vibrant blue.
Livia is stalking in the opposite direction toward the statue-lined entrance of a massive structure, clearly expecting me to follow.
Carriages identical to our own line the roadside.
Some drivers nap; others call out idle conversation to one another.
Darius looks to do neither, alighting and waiting for me to move.
There are only a few Octavii hurrying busily ahead, but the low grumbling of a distant, unseen crowd touches my ears.
I want to call out after Livia. To say something to her, respond to her outburst earlier. But like the entirety of this painfully awkward trip, I don’t know how without making things worse, so instead I jog to catch up and pretend as if all is normal. “This is Sciacca?”
“The Circus Sciacca.” She sweeps back a stray strand of curly brown hair, staring pointedly ahead as she marches. A curt gesture up to a carved inscription over the archway ahead confirms her statement.
As we enter the grand colonnade, a man in a gold-striped toga spots us and strides over. He’s in his fifties at least, hair and neatly trimmed beard peppered with grey, deep lines in his broad, sun-weathered face. His hands are clasped behind his back. “Catenicus?”
“Yes?”
“I am Sextus Caeso Tullius, your examiner for today. You’re late.”
“Hail, Sextus. My apologies.” Contrite but direct. I don’t try to offer excuses. We’re technically the same rank now, but he’s my elder and about to test me. Best to show respect.
He grunts. Studies my empty left sleeve with open doubtfulness, then sighs and jerks his head. “Come.”
The entrance into the Circus Sciacca is unsurprisingly grand, all archways and domes, frescoes and mosaics and intricately carved reliefs.
The Sextus directs Livia and Darius away up a staircase to the right, and then I’m being led through the main passageway and out the other side, into the glare of the midday sun and the reflected heat of bright sand.
I shield my eyes, and squint out at the scene before me.
The circus is easily a couple of thousand feet long and perhaps five hundred feet wide, its centre split by a long, low stone wall with two large columns at either end.
It’s a familiar enough sight from the occasional race I used to watch after Victorum in Letens, though there are no chariots in sight.
Instead, people dot the sandy breadth of the circuit in pairs, an observer making notes on a wax tablet while the other performs a task.
A young man lifts a boulder the size of my head and hurls it thirty feet.
Two plates hover in front of a woman as she’s blindfolded; a few moments later they wobble violently and then smash to the ground, accompanied by low laughs from some of the onlookers in the stands nearby.
Several participants are sprinting around the outer edge of the track, not against one another, but glistening with sweat nonetheless.
One comes close enough to see her completely black eyes.
There are a lot more examinees than I expected.
I stop, trying to make sense of it. There are hundreds more people scattered around the stands that ring the track, too, though they almost make the stadium seem more empty given that the circus’s capacity must surely be in the tens of thousands.
Many of the spectators are clumped in groups, talking in low tones and gesturing at what’s taking place below them.
I trail Tullius out farther, and my arrival causes a wave of vaguely excited murmurs from the stands, which in turn draws pauses and curious glances from those undergoing their assessments.
I stare back coolly. The others being tested are mostly my age, though a few are older; one even looks in his early forties. Not just newcomers to a pyramid here, then, but anyone who has been moved up a level during the latest review. Even so, there are definitely too many.
Then my step slows as, for the first time, I pay attention to faces.
Shaggy-haired Felix is over toward the centre, torso bare, eyes black as they meet mine.
Marcellus is not far from our path, avoiding my gaze with the pretence of focusing on the fist-sized stones in front of him.
Leridia, a girl from Class Six, half raises a hand in greeting before falteringly letting it drop to her side again.
A few others I recognise here and there, too.
I scan further. Iro and Indol are on the far side of the track, preparing to run. Indol smiles when he catches my gaze. I give a small nod back. Iro, typically, ignores the exchange.
And then there’s Aequa.
She’s a few hundred feet away, but we practiced together for weeks leading up to the Iudicium: the way her long black tresses are tied back, her lithe athleticism as she moves, is impossible to mistake.
She’s running holding a stone block while two more hover steadily in front of her.
She either hasn’t spotted me or is too focused to spare me a glance.
There’s a discomfort in seeing her, in particular. A queasiness. We were friends. Are friends. But I’m going to have to ask her about the Iudicium. I sent her to protect Callidus. I have to know why she didn’t. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
I expected to see her here, even if the location is a surprise. The others, though …
“This isn’t just Governance,” I realise belatedly. Iro’s father is a Tertius in Religion. Marcellus’s father is a Religion senator. Indol, assuming he went through with his defection, is Religion too.
Tullius eyes me. “I hope your imbuing is more impressive than your powers of observation, Catenicus.”
A quick scan confirms that it’s only Religion and Governance here as far as I can tell. I can see a few others I recognise from the Academy—Fifths, mostly—and none of them are from Military.
“Is this usual?” I know it’s not, but I ask the question anyway.
Tullius doesn’t dignify it with an answer.
Many of the spectators in the stands, I note, wear the purple stripe on their togas.
Senators. There’s no easy way to tell which are from Governance and which are from Religion, but from how some groups are huddled together, talking intensely—and blatantly ignoring the goings-on down here—I have to assume that matters other than our assessments are being discussed.
Even from down here, the mood of those conversations feels grim.
“Let’s start with a few questions.” Tullius has stopped us in a clear space.
“How much Will are you theoretically able to use right now?” When he sees my look, he allows a chuckle.
The smile reveals a gap in his front teeth.
“I know, I know. But you would be shocked at the number of fresh candidates who think they’re ready to wield Will, and don’t even know their own potential strength. ”
“Alright. I’m holding the strength of about eighteen and a half people.” Each Octavii cedes half their Will to their Septimus, giving them the equivalent of four extra people’s Will—as well as their own, to make five. Then they each cede half of that Will to me.
“About?”
“It’s an estimate, not a measurement. My actual strength will depend partly on my efficiency in using Will, and partly on my Octavii and Septimii. Their own individual strengths. Their drive. Their willingness to cede. Their health. Any other number of factors across any given day.”
“Good. Many fall into the trap of thinking about how many are ceding to them, and not about the quality of their pyramid.” Tullius nods to himself, making a note on his wax tablet. “Have you been asked to put your Will toward a specific task within Governance?”
“No.”
“Discretionary,” murmurs Tullius as he writes, the answer clearly an expected one. “And you agree not to use your Will for personal gain or for activities that are illegal, in particular any that might violate Birthright?”
“Of course. Yes.”
“Good.” More scribbling. “Enough questions, Catenicus. Now to the tests.”
I trail after Tullius as he moves us across to a pile of boulders. They’re irregularly shaped, a couple of feet wide and perhaps one in width and height. They must each weigh at least a few hundred pounds.
“First, we’re going to see how well you self-imbue. I want you to throw one of these as far as you can.” Tullius stands with his tablet and stylus at the ready, looking at me steadily.
I swallow a protest; it’s an immediately more difficult task with only one hand, but this is the test. The rocks are all a similar shape and size, and undoubtedly chosen to be of almost identical weight.
How far I can throw one will be a relatively objective measurement of both my strength, and my ability to apply it.
I crouch beside one that’s a little broader, fairly smooth. Easier to balance. “How far do I have to get it?”
“The average for a Totius Sextus would be thirty feet.”
“What’s the best throw today for a Totius Sextus?” I clarify.
“A little over fifty.” I can almost taste the doubt in Tullius’s tone.
I exhale. With two hands, I might be able to grip the stone and spin, releasing it with momentum. With only one, simply balancing myself while lifting is going to be an issue, no matter how much extra strength I have flooding my body.
Still crouching, I touch the stone. Focus.
Beneath the sun-warmed surface, a gentle pulse brushes my mind. Just barely. That makes sense: a simple object can’t be imbued with more than one person’s Will, and moving something through imbuing is far more efficient than physically throwing it. This is the only way to ensure that no one cheats.
I consider. Study the shape of the stone and memorize it, even as I feel the eyes on me.
I cannot show even a hint of this Adoption ability, if it works.
Gods. Forget my real name, my real origins—the Hierarchy would have me executed, buried, and all memory of me erased within an hour of realising what I can do.
“I’m waiting, Catenicus.” Tullius says it firmly, if not unkindly.
Vek. Vek, vek, vek. I don’t need to look around to know everyone’s watching; the way the hubbub everywhere has quietened is proof enough.
I straighten. Glare at the stone, then around.
“From that line?” There’s a semi-circle scored in the sand nearby.
In front of it is a demarcated space that is evidently meant to be kept clear.
“Yes.”
No choice. A poor display here might be safer, but what would be the point? I would be alive, and part of the Hierarchy, and in no position to do anything.
I close my eyes and for the first time since making sure the ceding had truly worked this morning, let myself feel the entirety of the Will within my grasp.
Let it flood into my body, washing like a tingling, cold wave through my veins.
Just like before, I am revolted only by how easy it is and how good it feels.
No hint of the disgusting sensation I always imagined, but instead, invigoration.
An infusion of pure, clean verve, no matter its source.
I take care to keep my mind clear. Carefully apportion the extra strength throughout my body, allowing more into my hips and waist, where I’ll generate the majority of the power for my throw.
It’s possible I’ll instinctively reassign any excess Will to there when the time comes, anyway—we were taught at the Academy that much of self-imbuing comes from reflex—but this way will be more efficient.
Prevent any last-second imbalance from the adjustment.
It all happens in moments, less than a second. I feel lost and wonderful. Sick and invincible. I try not to imagine my eyes, how I must look to everyone watching on.
Then I brace myself. Bend down and position my hand beneath the boulder, let it settle onto my palm and feel its weight. Every inch of my body is tense with the effort of balancing.
I reach out for a second. Two. Five. Picturing the stone in my mind. The Will in it is right there. I strain after it. Hoping. Hoping. Relucia’s contact had no reason to lie to me.
Connection.
With a roar, I scoop the enormous rock up, launch forward, and throw.