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.
