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.

“Can’t someone else do it?”

He frowned at me. “Yes, but it is the duty of the king.”

“But you aren’t the king,” I argued. Yet. “Why doesn’t your father do it?”

“Because he entrusted me with it.” I could feel Tristan’s pride radiating through our bond. “When I was fifteen – the youngest ever to take on the task. It is a very great honor.”

I nodded gravely, although in my opinion, King Thibault’s delegating the task likely had more to do with him not wanting to drag his fat arse all around Trollus each day than trust in his son. “Is it hard?”

“It is tiring,” he said, motioning for me to follow him down an empty side street. “It requires an immense amount of my power to maintain at the best of times. When it needs adjusting, I sometimes require assistance from the Builders’ Guild – which is my guild, by the way. But not often.”