In the few weeks since Second Calderon, everything's changed.

Uncle Bernard has been busy getting settled in as Count Calderon--somehow Tavi feels like he gets to see his uncle less. Amara's been coming to visit, which is nice; Tavi never thought he'd make friends with a Cursor of the Crown, but he has. A part of him hopes he can serve Alera with that much effectiveness one day, even though he doesn't think someone like him is likely to.

Some other part whispers he'll be a Cursor one day, and to be patient. Tavi hates being patient.

Aunt Isana's been trying to hide how worried she is about his moving away, although it only takes his enthusiasm for the classes he'll get to take to start putting a smile back on her face. And sometimes Tavi isn't sure if he should try to talk to Fade alone about what happened--Araris Valerian died fifteen years ago. Do you understand, Tavi?--and sometimes he knows with absolute certainty it isn't the right time.

Which is why Tavi's now out watching the sheep, instead of getting ready to go. He volunteered. So long as he's out here, things are almost like normal. He doesn't want to go back--there's too much to do, and see, and explore. He's getting all he ever wanted now, and doesn't even begin to imagine where it might lead.

He just needs a little quiet, and a little time. Sheep are good for that.

"...as you will study next term, the theories that the records are implying non-furycrafting methods of engineering are blatantly ridiculous..." The instructor paused as a small and completely un-tentative hand went into the air. "...Ah. Tavi Patronus Gaius. You had a question."

Tavi kept his voice steady with some effort. "Why are they ridiculous, sir?"

"...I beg your pardon?"

He could already hear the snickers, could feel the knowing looks, and was already certain that Brencis would find an excuse to beat him bloody again after class. Bloody crows. "Why are the theories ridiculous?"

The instructor look at him almost pityingly, his voice condescending as he replied, "While I understand your interest, Academ, the idea that Alerans would need to resort to other methods so long as we had furycrafting is absolutely perposterous. Now, as I was saying... Yes, Tavi?"

"Is there any evidence against the theories?"

That earned him a glare. "Simple common sense, young man."

"But what if we didn't always have crafting?" There was a weighted silence, and Tavi bravely forged ahead. "I've read some of the older texts, sir. The Gallic Wars. It's standard reading for strategy instruction. It makes no mention of crafting."

After another pregnant pause, the teacher said coldly, "Doubtless because it was implied. You may take it up in more detail next semester, Academ. Now, unless you have anything productive to contribute, I would suggest you remain silent."

Tavi sighed internally. Just what he needed. And then he felt a small pebble hit the back of his head, and winced. "As if the freak could ever produce anything worth while," he heard Kalarus Brencis Minoris sneer.

He sank into his seat a little, hearing Max as Brencis if he needed his head slammed into the ground again, and the teacher angrily calling for order. Today was not going to be fun.

*

Later, after class, Tavi sat silently eating his lunch, trying to ignore the throbbing in his nose and face. It hadn't been too bad, today--Brencis had only slammed him into a wall. Ehren'd been worse off--Max had taken him to the healers. Tavi's nose was really only a little bloody.

Still hurt like the crows, though.