Chapter XXVI
XXVI
“NOW WE GET TO SEE HOW YOU FARE WITH IMBUING,” says Tullius briskly, shading his eyes from the scorching sun as I reach him.
We’re heading for the opposite side of the track this time, weaving our way between the various other tests still taking place.
He considers me with a sidelong glance as I again rub absently at my chest, the pain there only seeming to have increased over the past hour.
“Give yourself a moment at the beginning, Catenicus. Make sure your mind is clear. This is more mental than physical, and you’re being judged only on efficiency, not speed. ”
“Thanks.” He’s gruff, but the advice sounds genuine. I’ve earned some respect with my previous performance.
We come to a stop next to a long pile of stones, arranged neatly in increasing size.
Some are smaller than the one I had to hurl earlier, but the largest dozen are enormous, rough cubes that are all at least taller than me by a head.
Tullius indicates the closest one, wax tablet and stylus at the ready.
“Imbue this, then lift it without touching it.”
I nod, trying not to show my unease. I know, theoretically, that I can do this. But the boulder weighs at least three thousand pounds. Even having seen similar feats plenty of times before, it seems ludicrous.
I rest my hand against the stone’s brown, sun-warmed surface.
It’s the largest one of the lot. That makes sense: the physical tests have given Tullius an idea of my pyramid’s strength, so he knows I have enough Will to lift this weight.
But imbuing—the act of transferring Will from yourself into an object, in order to manipulate it in some way—is as much about mental acuity as strength.
A poorly trained mind, as we were so constantly reminded at the Academy, can lose up to half of any transferred Will simply in making the connection.
And then half again when attempting to apply it.
Efficiency, not speed. I take my time. Ignore the burden of expectant gazes from the stands and pace deliberately around the stone, committing it to memory.
The academic term is retinentia: taking a mental image of the object to be imbued, learning its every line in order to make the imbuing as economical as possible.
I’ve never heard anyone outside the Praeceptors call it anything so pompous, though.
Amongst ourselves we just called it “memorising,” and no one ever got confused.
Satisfied, I stop and place my hand against the stone again. Carefully envisage the entire boulder, and exhale. Lock it in my mind, just as we practiced again and again and again at the Academy.
An immediate sense of connection. Of extension. Like another limb has suddenly appeared, strangely natural and unnervingly not. It’s easier than I expected, so much so that I almost lose concentration from the surprise.
I don’t move for a few seconds, mentally examining the extrasensory pulse that now emanates from the stone.
There’s not meant to be any other feedback to suggest the extent of my success, no easy indication of exactly how much Will I’ve managed to imbue.
Another advantage of my strange new ability, it seems.
I let my hand drop to my side. Step back. The boulder is still there, an extra appendage. Disconcertingly similar to the way I still feel my arm, sometimes.
I keep my focus razor-sharp, and command the stone to lift.
It rises.
My shock at how easily it moves is again almost dangerous to the process.
It feels nothing like lifting the stone myself; my muscles don’t heave with exertion, don’t even twitch.
I’m concentrating, true—concentrating fiercely—and I know from my lessons that this is how it’s meant to be.
Even so, it feels unnaturally effortless.
Far more akin to moving a limb than picking something up.
I watch as the boulder raises a foot off the ground.
Two. Three. I can sense the weight of it: This is near the limit of my strength and just as if I was physically shifting something heavy, I can’t reposition it quickly or with sharp, start-stop motions.
It’s immediately intuitive how its own momentum would make it move gradually faster if I propelled it in a single direction—but also that it would then take effort to slow down again, be impossible to stop at a moment’s notice.
Natural forces aren’t obviated here. I’m simply using the strength at my command to push the thing around.
I lift the massive stone until it’s ten feet off the ground, then let it hover. Still marvelling at the simplicity of it. The Academy was geared almost entirely toward training us for this. This, more than anything else, is the ultimate application of my last eighteen months.
“High enough?” I ask it calmly. I can hear murmurs from the hillside again. People are impressed.
“Yes.” Tullius’s voice betrays no such astonishment, this time. Good. I need for people to expect me to do well, not be surprised by it.
I lower the boulder until it touches gently back to the sand, ensuring it all happens in one smooth, clean motion. I’m not sure if I’m being assessed on control, at this point, but there’s no harm in putting some on display.
“Take your Will back.” I do as instructed, touching the stone and erasing its image from my mind. The pulsing in it vanishes. It’s all very simple. All exactly as I’ve been taught.
“Now we’ll try this one … this one … and this one.” Tullius moves down the line of boulders, singling out three smaller ones of significantly differing sizes. At a glance, they probably combine to make up roughly the weight of the one I just lifted. Perhaps are even a little heavier, overall.
I meticulously examine all three again before starting.
This is where things become challenging.
Each stone is a different weight; I’m going to have to ration my Will unevenly between them, ensuring I imbue enough into each to lift it—but not waste too much on any single one.
All while making multiple efficient connections.
“Can I test how much Will they need before starting?”
“No.”
I grunt. Unsurprising, albeit annoying; in typical Catenan fashion, they’re more interested in the flair of natural ability than seeing someone succeed through trial and error.
There’s some logic to it, I suppose—they’re assessing aptitude and thus potential, as opposed to work ethic or common sense—but that entire approach is unbalanced.
Shortsighted. Talent, as my father used to remind me constantly, matters only when it’s married to effort.
No point in grumbling, though. I walk over to stand in front of the smallest of the three boulders; better to apportion the least amounts of Will first, and then pour everything I have left into the biggest one.
I crouch, resting my hand against the rock.
Lock it in my mind, but this time, carefully envisage the strength I imagine I’ll need to manipulate it, too.
It’s nebulous, feels awfully imprecise. Akin to asking someone to apply a quarter of their strength to a task—possible, certainly, but it’s on instinct rather than careful calculation.
“Can I go back and adjust the amount of Will in each one before trying to lift them?”
“No.”
Of course not. The first stone done, I move on to the second and then the third boulder in slow, scrupulous succession.
It’s not overly difficult to keep their images firmly in my mind—I’ve had that ability well and truly honed in me—but the added pressure of the stakes makes the process feel far more intense.
The sun bakes the sand underfoot. Droplets of sweat form on my brow, threaten to trickle into my eyes.
I refuse to allow the distraction of wiping them away.
As soon as I’m done, I step back. Feel all three connections. Three extra limbs, only this time each one is a different size, a different strength.
I lift.
The three boulders rise in unison, a little slower than last time but still smoothly.
The heaviest one is at fault: I was too generous with my Will for the smaller two, almost didn’t leave enough in reserve.
The struggle to make it rise is a strange sensation.
I can feel the strain of lifting it—can feel that the Will in it is almost not enough.
But it’s not a physical or mental pressure on me, not an effort in any sense of the word. Just a limitation that I’m aware of.
I stop the boulders at the same height as previously and then, at an acknowledging word from Tullius, let them down again.
“Now blindfolded.” Tullius is already moving to stand in front of me, strip of white cloth at the ready.
I close my eyes as they’re covered, fiercely holding on to the image of the three stones.
It’s not as difficult as I thought it would be—again undoubtedly in part due to my training, but also because the Will already in the boulders makes the mental picture easier to maintain.
Their details remain sharp in my mind, even as everything around them fades to grey haze.
There’s a smattering of applause from the hill this time as I command the three boulders to elevate, hover, then settle to the ground again.
I remain outwardly unaffected as Tullius removes the blindfold, but I’m relieved.
Pleased, even. A Totius Sextus should certainly be able to imbue three objects at once, but doing so with minimal loss of Will is difficult—and doing it without having visual contact with the imbued objects even more so.
From what I understand, even an experienced Sextus might struggle with what I just did.
I look around once I can see again, spotting Aequa still sitting where I left her. The raven-haired girl makes a face and waves a hand noncommittally at my performance, even as the clapping dies down. I snort and grin back.