We took our leave from Pierre’s little house. “You come visit me when Tristan starts to bore you, my lady!” he called from behind us. I turned to wave goodbye and had to hurry to catch up to Tristan.
A laughing group of children carrying books ran by and we were treated to a chorus of “Good morning, my lord,” along with many curious glances in my direction.
“Where are they going?” I asked, smiling at their antics.
“To school,” Tristan replied. “We’ll start here.”
He stopped next to a low, circular stone wall that stood in the middle of the street.
I turned back around to watch the children, girls and boys, disappear into a stately building. “Truly? The girls, too?”
“Truly,” Tristan replied, but his attention seemed elsewhere. “They all attend until they’re ten, and then they start learning their respective trades. But look here, Cécile. This is the tree. Or part of it, rather.”
With a wistful backwards glance, I turned to see Tristan standing on the stone wall, staring at empty space. “Where?” I asked, looking into the circle. There was nothing but stone.
“Here.” He clasped my hand and pulled it forward. Immediately, it was enveloped in liquid warmth. I jerked my hand back. “I can feel something, but I can’t see it.” My eyes searched the empty air, trying to find a glimmer of what he was looking at. Reaching into the magic, I ran my hand up as high as I could reach, even on my tiptoes, but I could not grasp what was in front of me.
“No, I suppose as a human, you wouldn’t.”
“But trolls can see it?”
“See isn’t precisely the correct word – we can sense it’s there. Me better than most, because the magic is predominantly mine.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling more than a little let down. I’d thought he was going to show me something impressive, but all I’d done was warm my fingers in a column of magic. “I could see the magic girders in the mines – they were all lit up.”
Frowning, he let go of my hand and cracked his knuckles. “Good idea.” Reaching out, he touched the magic and it burst into silver light.
“God in heaven,” I whispered, watching in awe as light flooded in a stick-straight column up and up. It reached the rocks above and bloomed outward into arches that canopied across the sky. Column after column lit up until all of Trollus glowed and I could see that the rock was supported much like the ceiling of the throne room, just on a larger scale.
My head tilted backwards, I turned in an awe-struck circle until the sound of shrieking children caught my attention.
The troll children poured back out of the school, running in circles around us yelling, “Light show!” over and over again. Tristan laughed at them, and suddenly bursts of light in all different colors exploded in the sky, like fireworks, raining bits of magic over the city. Fantastical creatures made of light soared through the air, diving down to circle the children, who screamed in delight, jumping for cover and then crowing for more. They made their own little flying beasts and sent them chasing after Tristan’s red and gold serpent, which circled around and gobbled the children’s creatures down.
He gave a flourishing bow to his little subjects and then, looking back at the glowing column, he snapped his fingers and the tree blinked out. I found myself clapping with delight along with the other children. “Bravo,” I said. “Most impressive.”
Grinning, he bowed deeply, then motioned for the children to get back to their studies. “Light requires little effort, and they are fond of parlor tricks.”
“Who isn’t?” Reaching out, I touched the magic again, allowing my hand to sink deep into the depths of the column. “How is it,” I asked, “that I can pass my hand through it, but it can still hold up all that rock?”
“It knows the difference between the two.”
“Knows?” I frowned. “Is it alive?”
Tristan stepped off the stone wall and I watched his brow furrow as he considered how to explain. It struck me that for once I was seeing the real Tristan, not an act designed to disguise his true feelings or a few kind words that accidentally slipped through. Gone was the cold callousness, and in its place was a young man content to let the little trolls pull at his sleeves with the irreverence only children can get away with.
“It isn’t alive, precisely,” Tristan finally said. “It is what I will it to be. I want it to hold up rock, but to let through the river and everything in it. The magic knows the difference, because I know the difference.”
“I see,” I said. “And what is it that you do to it every day?”
“Mostly, I fill it with power,” he said, unconsciously offering me his arm and just as quickly pulling it back. “Magic fades,” he added, sensing my confusion. “The tree constantly needs to be replenished. And when the earth shakes, it also needs to be adjusted to ensure the load is balanced correctly. That’s what takes the most time.”
“And you do this every day?” I asked. For all the grandness of the tree, it seemed a more monotonous task than milking cows or slopping pigs.
“Every day,” he agreed.