That was not exactly reassuring. Hex raised an eyebrow. “What happens if I fail?”

The fairy sat up in his chair, and looked at Hex with a gaze that pinned him like an insect. “Then you are of no more use to us,” he said, “and people who are of no use to the fairies do not last long in Oz.”

“I thought Ozma was supposed to be good!” Hex protested.

“Ozma,” the king snorted, and a titter ran through the assembled crowd. “Ozma has her uses, but she is the least of all of us. Wizard, I grow impatient. Will you begin the test, or keep yapping all day?”

Hex stared at the fairy king, who blew a set of lazy smoke rings at the ceiling. “Take off your clothes,” the king said flatly, “and enter the pool. And then, Wizard, we will see what stuff you are made of.”

“Here?” Hex asked, bewildered.

“Where else?” It all seemed like some elaborate practical joke. Hex would take off his clothes, and they’d all laugh at him, and that would be the end of it; he’d be humiliated, they’d have had their fun. Suddenly, he found that he didn’t care. He was tired of cryptic pronouncements, inexplicable quests, mysterious allusions to a past he knew nothing about. If this was his chance to find out who he was and end it, he was willing to take it. And if not? If they killed him? So be it. It couldn’t be worse than the Lion, whatever they did. At least, it didn’t seem like it could be worse than the Lion. He stripped off his jacket and trousers and undergarments; the fairy king raised one eyebrow, but said nothing, and Hex sensed that he was almost impressed. He didn’t think I could do it. He stood before the fairies with his back straight, naked as the day he was born. “I accept your test,” he said, and then he walked to the pool and jumped in.

The water was as thick and viscous as oil, and he sank like a stone, realizing belatedly that he had not thought to ask how deep the pool was—and it seemed that the person he had once been had no idea how to swim. Without thinking, he opened his mouth to shout in terror, and the black liquid poured down his throat and entered his body, turning his limbs heavy and his thoughts slow and strange. He was drifting through darkness—he found, to his surprise, that he could breathe, although the air was heavy and close and scented with something unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Faintly sweet, like a delicate wildflower.

“Welcome, Wizard,” said a gentle voice. It came from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding him like the water itself; it was kind, but underneath the kindness was steel.

“Who are you?” he asked, and found that he could speak as easily as he could breathe—where was he? What kind of pool was this?

“You are in a place between places,” the voice said. “A place between times. Between what has come before, and what is yet to pass. The pool of the fairies is a very old and very powerful thing. It is here that you must make your final choice. But first, I have something to show you.”

“Who are you?” he asked again, and the voice laughed.

“I am Ozma,” it said, “and Lurline before her, and all the fairy queens who have ruled this country. I am made out of the magic of Oz itself. I am Oz, Wizard. Now pay attention.” The darkness around him swirled into an image of what he knew must be Oz, but not the Oz he had traveled through: this vision was a terrible one. Dark factories scarred the once-verdant landscape, belching black smoke into the toxic air. Munchkins in chains toiled miserably in the fields, drawing magic out of the earth with terrible machines as a glittering pink witch floated over them, her mouth drawn into a horrible grin. The Lion tore through a village, leaving a pile of corpses in his wake, his mouth and hands red with blood as he laughed mercilessly. The clanking armies of the Tin Woodman marched endlessly across the barren plains where flowers had once bloomed, crops had once grown. Iris, her wrists bound, wept piteously as a soldier dragged her behind him toward the Emerald Palace.

And then Hex saw himself and knew somehow that he was in the Other Place. He was in a huge room—a study or a library—filled with rich, expensive furniture. Bookcases stuffed with leather-bound books and curios lined one wall, and framed posters featuring his picture plastered another. His side table was crowded with flowers and cards; baskets of fan mail were piled beneath them. He was reading a book about magic, seated at an impressive oak desk covered in ornate carvings, while a butler brought him a glass of whiskey in a crystal highball glass on a little silver tray, bowing deeply.

“You can leave Oz,” the voice said. “You can return to the Other Place. This is the life that awaits you there—the life of a conjurer, a stage magician of great renown. You will be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams; you will perform for presidents and kings. Your magic will not be real, not the magic of Oz, but it will not matter—because audiences around the world will believe it is. You will live a long, illustrious life, and die a very old and very respected man.”

“But Oz . . . ,” he said.

“But Oz will become what you have seen. There will be no stopping the tide of Dorothy’s dark magic. Oz will fall.”

“And if I stay?”

“There are no certain things,” the voice said. “There is no way to see the end of this story until we are upon it. You have magic here, real magic. You have been transformed. If Oz is to have a chance, it will be because you stay. But there are no guarantees.”

“I could give up everything and still fail?”

“You could.”