4. Story Time

It was the third day of Dawne. Four more to go.

Kaprice sighed wearily. The second day had passed, quite uneventfully. Everyone had stayed in late, getting the rest that they had not been able to get the night before because of the partying. The second night had also been full of dancing and songs, but no one stayed in late the next morning because of it. The third night of Dawne was the Night of Memories. And everyone was eager and impatient for it.

Everyone was gathered into a large circle around Nimoy, the oldest member of the Black tribes and the official storyteller. Kaprice stood by the edges, far enough to hide in the shadow unnoticed, but close enough to hear Nimoy speak.

"Where shall I start?" she heard him ask the others.

"From the beginning!" the children, who sat right in front of Nimoy's stool, said.

"The beginning? But then I'll be telling stories late into the night. Why don't I just start during the time right before The Devastation instead?" he suggested.

The children paused to think about it, and then they nodded their heads in assent.

"Very well. A long, long time ago, there was a great land known as Tortall. I was just a babe then, but my parents told me stories about that wonderful land when I was a child of an age like yourself," Nimoy said while glancing pointedly at a young boy who sat in front of him.

"What was Tortall like, Nimoy?" a little girl asked.

"It was a fine country. A land covered with green grass and flourishing trees," Nimoy stated proudly. "Before The Devastation struck, King Jonathan IV was the ruling king. He was a wise and just king, and his wife, Queen Thayet, was known as the most beautiful woman in the land."

"And what about the knights?" an eager boy asked.

"Well, who do you want to hear about? The legendary Lady Knight Alanna, or perhaps Lord Raoul?"

"Lady Alanna!" someone said.

"Well, --"

"Wasn't Lady Alanna also a sorceress?" A young man asked.

At the word 'sorceress' the crowd became somber and silent.

Nimoy's eyes scanned the crowd carefully. "Yes," he finally said. "She was."

"But isn't magic evil?" a child squeaked from the front.

Nimoy shook his aged head. "Magic isn't by nature evil. It depends on the person who bears it. There were those who used their magic for good, like Lady Alanna and King Jonathan. But just as they were good, there were those who were bad. Those who used their Gifts to harm others. And it was they who helped to bring about The Devastation."

Everyone was strangely quiet. Nimoy's words seemed to echo across the sand to the ears of the young and to the old.

"It is said that The Devastation was caused by an evil mad mage. That he buried the world under his never-ending stretches of desert sand. It happened so quickly, like one fast explosion, that no one was able to stop it. Strangely, most of those who perished were the ones with the Gift. So many with the Gift perished that there were very very few left when the Devastation settled down. And that is why there is no magic here amongst the tribes. Magic has dwindled and gone."

Kaprice saw many of the tribal members exchange silent looks with one another. She knew that they were suddenly thinking of her. Her and her strangeness. A bitter taste formed at the back of her throat.

"And that is why the world we live in today is made up entirely of desert. However, there are still a few who have hope for our future. They believe that the gods will come and help, reverting everything to as it was before."

There were snorts of disbelief and scorn from the crowd.

Nimoy acknowledged them with a nod. "However, for most, the belief in the gods has dwindled. Where were the gods at our hour of ruin?" There was a sense of bitterness in Nimoy's voice. "Where were the gods when our land was buried underneath the desert?"

"Maybe they were busy with something else." a child offered.

Nimoy started, glancing down at the child in surprise. He suddenly smiled a tender smile. "Perhaps you're right, little one. Perhaps, when they are finished with whatever they are doing, they will turn to us."

"You sound like you are a believer of the gods, old man." Someone shouted out from the back.

Nimoy was silent for a moment. And then he nodded. "Yes, I am."

"They've done nothing to help us!" Someone else stated angrily. Other voices soon joined with their own angry protests.

"If we do not believe in the gods to come to our aid," Nimoy stated loudly, forcing other to be silent, "then who shall we turn to? The sands of the desert have entered our souls and we are now a bitter, bitter people. But if we do not believe in the gods, what are we left with?"

The silence in reply to his question stretched. Then a child spoke. "Nimoy, do you know who the Wanderer is?"

"The Wanderer?" Nimoy mused. He shook his head. "No. Legends have it that he is a ghost who wanders the desert fruitlessly as if searching for something. They say that he is a ghost from the time of Tortall before the desert."

The story of the Wanderer was a story told to disobedient children by their frustrated mothers.

"A ghost?" A bold young boy said. "I don't believe in them."

"Very well," Nimoy shrugged. "but if you meet a strange man wandering the desert dunes alone, turn the other way and run. For it is said that no one has lived after facing the Wanderer. No one."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Luckily, Nimoy decided to finish the rest of night with stories that were less controversial than magic and the gods. By the time he was finished, most of the children were asleep and even the young men and women looked tired. Everyone except the adults decided to call it a night and headed for their tents, some with lovers in hand and others who decided to get their rest alone.

Kaprice headed for the oasis, wanting some quiet time beneath the stars before going back to her tent. But when she got there, she saw that someone was already standing at her usual spot under a tree.

"Kaprice," Ryker said as a way of greeting.

She stopped several feet away. "What are you doing here, Ryker?"

"Waiting for you, of course."

Of course.

She stared at him broodingly. Then, "Do you believe in the Gift, Ryker? In magic?"

"Magic?" He thought about it. "I don't think so. Magic and the Gift are things from the past. We have none of that now." He glanced up to stare into the night sky. "Although, sometimes I wish we did. I wonder what it would have been like to live in Tortall before the Devastation. To have magic." He shrugged. "They're foolish thoughts, I know."

"No." She shook her head. "They're not."

He glanced back at her, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments with no animosity.

And then the moment was broken by a shout. "Ryker!"

Mindy suddenly popped out, seemingly from the middle of nowhere, and wrapped her arms around Ryker's waist.

A flash of annoyance crossed Ryker's face, and Kaprice felt the same annoyance cross her own. Then she shook her head, turning away from the scene.

"Kaprice--" Ryker started to say.

"Have a nice night, Ryker." she said in response. "I hope you have fun with Mindy."

The walk to her tent was supposed to be uneventful. But of course, it just couldn't be that way.

About halfway there she heard footsteps behind her, but before she could turn around to face whoever it was, they tackled her down onto the sand and pulled a sack over her head.

A.N. - a little background, a little boring, but hey, it was necessary.

Still puzzled about what happened three years ago? That will be explained more in uhm…three chapters from now. But just so I don't drive you crazy, let's just say that kaprice was hit with reality.

And thank you, demented dreamer, for your very eloquent review. :)

Don't forget to leave me a review~!

~krizsta