The Wizard Returns (8 page)

He could almost hear the voice smile. “What do you think of Pete?”

“I think he's a jerk.”

Now the voice was definitely laughing. “Do not be so quick to judge, Wizard. Pete has his own burdens to carry, and his own secrets. All will be revealed to you in time—if you choose the people of Oz. If you do not . . .”

“If I don't, the fairies will kill me.”

“The fairies are malicious, but not evil. Whatever they told you, they will not kill you. You will be returned safely to your own time, your own home. All of this will be behind you.” The voice grew sad again. “You will forget your time here, even as Oz ceases to exist. But you must know what you were, before you can choose what you will become. I give you your memories,
Wizard.”

The terrible vision of Oz, of Iris with her bound and bleeding wrists, vanished. And suddenly, his memory—the memory of who he had been, what he had done, his days in the palace and in the Other Place, the entire long, tangled ribbon of his life, spilled back into his head like wine pouring from a jar, until he was dizzy with it. The petty tricks he had played on the people as soon as he had arrived in Oz, the deceit—forcing them to build him the Emerald City, betraying the monkeys, avoiding the witches like the plague lest he be exposed as the fraud he so essentially was. His entire time in Oz had been marked with his craven cowardice and chicanery. He had made the worst possible choice at every turn. No wonder the monkeys had cursed him; no wonder Pete had treated him with such contempt. He was filled with an overwhelming shame. How could he face the people of Oz after what he had done? How could he possibly stay here? The only answer was to go somewhere no one knew him and start over.

It hardly seemed like a choice at all. “I choose—” He opened his mouth to ask her to send him back, send him home at last—but something stopped him at the last minute. What would happen to him if he returned to the Other Place? If he left behind what it was he had found here—the possibility that he was something far more than an ordinary man? He had felt the power of Oz's magic running through him like a drug in his veins. To abandon that forever, once he had tasted it—what would that do to him? All the money and fame in the world could never come
close to that elation, that exhilarating moment in the clearing when he had felt the full power of Oz coursing through him, when almost anything had seemed possible. What if that power was the chance to redeem himself? What if it would make him a better man than he had been? If he left now, if he went back to the Other Place, he would live with the regret of his loss for all the rest of his years. He would lose the chance of undoing the terrible things he had done, and never be able to forgive himself for it. And more than anything else, even if he went back to riches and fame, he would never use magic—real magic—again. Never know what it was like to summon the power of Oz. Never find out what he was truly capable of, now that he could tap into Oz's magic. And he knew, deep down, that regret would undo him, like a cancer in his heart.

“I choose Oz,” he said. All around him, he could hear the fairies crying out—in joy, in exhilaration, in triumph, he could not say. “I am the Wizard!” he cried aloud, and then all at once he had the sensation of flying through the air at a tremendous speed until he landed with a sudden, ungainly thump on the carpet at the fairy king's feet, stark naked and dripping wet.

The fairy king sneered down at him. “So you have chosen us after all, Wizard,” he said, and beckoned to one of the fairies behind him. “Bring our Wizard a towel,” he added, laughing mockingly. “If you are truly to be the savior of Oz, Wizard, you might want to start by putting on some clothes.”

The fairies bustled about, wrapping him up in soft robes, rubbing dry his hair until he batted their hands away with irritation. They tried to dress him, but he turned his back to them and put his clothes on with as much dignity as he could muster. He was acutely conscious of the king's amused gaze. A fairy brought him a mirror and a comb, and as he tidied his hair as best he could he saw that the face in the mirror was his own, his real face; Pete's disguise had melted painlessly away. Another fairy offered him a glass of something hot and steaming. The surface of the liquid appeared to be glowing from within. “What
is
that?” he asked, eyeing it dubiously.

“Sunfruit Schnapps!” the fairy said cheerfully. The Wizard took a cautious sip and the fiery liquid slipped down his throat, setting him to coughing furiously. But soon a warm glow filled his stomach, and he found he didn't mind the burn nearly as much after another few sips. The fairies tittered as he chugged
down the rest of the liquor and waved his cup around, which magically refilled itself.

“You have made your choice,” the fairy king said, and the excited buzz of the fairies fell silent at once.

“I have,” the Wizard said.

The fairy king smiled, a smile that did not reach his eyes. “We do not give, Wizard, without asking something in return. We have given you back yourself; we have offered you the power of Oz itself. And now, we will ask of you a tiny favor before you devote yourself to the glory of Oz.” Again, it was almost as though the fairy was making fun of him, the Wizard thought, his mind racing. Pete had been infuriating, but the Wizard had never doubted how much he cared about Oz. The fairies seemed different, though. The voice in the pool had said they were corrupt and weak. Was it possible they were trying to trick him? Was Pete working for them—or being used by them?

The Wizard narrowed his eyes. “Describe this . . . favor.”

“Long ago, you gave three gifts to three children of Oz—all of whom asked you for something they lacked. This much, I assume, you remember now?”

“The Cowardly Lion,” the Wizard said slowly. “The Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman—but that was nothing. Those gifts weren't even real. I had no power then.”

“Indeed, you thought nothing of answering their pleas, knowing that the magic they believed you had was nothing but an illusion. But what if I told you the illusion itself was a lie?”

“I don't understand,” the Wizard said helplessly. “I was
never—I never had magic, before now. I don't even know what happened back there with the Lion. It's out of my control.”

“The journey from the Other Place transforms your kind in ways we do not yet understand,” the fairy king said. “In the crossing, you become something more—and perhaps something less—than what you once were. Like Dorothy, you had no magic in your world; like Dorothy, Oz has altered you. You have had the power of Oz at your disposal all this time, Wizard. When you created the three gifts—the Lion's courage, the Tin Woodman's heart, the Scarecrow's brain—you thought you were only offering them a kind of panacea. But there was real magic, Old Magic, in those gifts—and when those from the Other Place make that discovery it often leads them down a path of perversion and abuse.

“Make no mistake, Wizard, the magic of Oz is our magic, the magic of the fairies—and we want those gifts
back.
The corruption of the Lion, the Scarecrow, and the Tin Woodman is on your shoulders. You must bring back to us what was not yours to give.”

“You want the gifts back?” the Wizard asked, his mind whirling. “But why?”

The king rose from his throne, fierce and imperious. “The doings of my people are no business of yours, Wizard. The magic of Oz is ours to keep safe, ours to protect. You have let loose something that must be stopped, and it is up to you to make amends. The pool offered you a choice, and you chose Oz. Do not challenge Oz's rightful rulers.”

“Look,” the Wizard said crossly, “I went through kind of a lot to get here. Pete said you could help me, and now you're asking me to go off on some crazy quest. Is he one of you?”

The fairies stirred restlessly, and the fairy king looked almost shifty. “Is that what he told you?”

“He didn't tell me anything,” the Wizard said. “Except that you had the key to my memories, and that I'd be tested—a test I just passed. I'm not helping you until you tell me who Pete is and why you sent him to me in the first place.”

The fairy king considered the question, his eyes half-lidded, before he answered. “Pete is one of us, in a way,” he said finally. “We have been waiting a long time, Wizard, to see if you might be able to help Oz with your . . .” The king paused delicately, and someone behind him snickered—“
powers
.”

“What do you mean, you
waited
? You knew I was in that field? For twenty-five years?” The king didn't answer. And then the worst thought of all occurred to him. “Someone sent that storm to keep me in Oz—someone with real magic. That was
you
, wasn't it?” The fairy was silent, but his expression gave him away. The Wizard felt fury rise in his chest. The fairies had been using him all along, and for longer than he'd even imagined. They'd left him in that field until they thought he might be useful—and they would have continued to leave him there forever if he wasn't. And if the king lied about that, no doubt he was lying about the gifts—lying about protecting Oz. He wanted the gifts for himself—but to what end? Did the fairies want to restore Ozma to the throne, when the pool itself had told
him they were corrupt? Was the fairy king imagining
himself
on the throne in the Emerald Palace? The Wizard schooled his features, keeping his expression neutral. He couldn't let the fairy king guess that he knew there was more to the fairies' demand than simply the well-being of Oz. And suddenly he was angry again, angry like he hadn't been since he'd faced the Lion. The voice in the pool had made him believe he could be good again—but this lying pack of fairies was only out for themselves. Why should he be selfless, when no one else in Oz was? What did he care about their petty power plays? Who was to say that Ozma was any better?
Maybe everyone who rules Oz is destined to put themselves first
, he thought bitterly.
Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's this place—and now I'm stuck here.
Ozma had tricked him in the pool—tricked him into believing in the possibility of his own goodness. But what felt good about being good? He squashed down the thought of Iris—after all, even she had been trying in her own way to stab him in the back. No, the only thing that felt good was power. He'd had power once. And now he wanted it back.

“We felt you had more to do in Oz,” the fairy king said smoothly, interrupting his thoughts. “Bringing your balloon down was not the most graceful way to keep you here, and for that I apologize.” The king coughed, and the Wizard noted how difficult it was for him to so much as admit to the slightest wrongdoing—even if he was only doing it to sweet-talk the Wizard into doing his bidding. “I hope you can forgive us. Sometimes when the good of Oz is concerned we—ah”—the fairy king
looked as though he was about to bring up a hair ball—“we can, er, make mistakes. Not that that happens
often
, of course,” he added hastily.

The Wizard drew himself up to his full height—which was, admittedly, not very tall. “I accept your apology,” he lied, “and I accept your task. I will not fail. Do not forget that I
did
rule Oz, and well.”

“‘Well' is not precisely the word I would have used,” the fairy king said, laughing, “but I have no doubt you will do your earnest best on our behalf. I offer you a token—and a reminder—of our . . . esteem.” The fairy king bent forward and scooped up a palmful of water from the black pool. He took his palm away, and the globe of water floated there; with both hands, he pinched and shaped it, drawing it out into an ebony cane. When it was finished, he presented it to the Wizard with a flourish. “Do not forget us,” he said lightly. “We will be watching you, Wizard. Of that, you can be certain.”

“I have no doubt,” the Wizard said coolly. “But I have no need of your gifts.”

“I insist,” the king said coldly, holding it out. The Wizard hesitated, and then accepted the cane. He tapped it experimentally against the ground; it was as solid as an ordinary cane, though the wood was shot through with an obsidian slickness that echoed the water of the pool. As he looked at it, an eye opened in the dark wood and winked at him before disappearing again. So this was how they would watch him. He would have to be very careful, indeed. He had no doubt that if he found a
way to get rid of the cane they would punish him for it somehow. Now was not the time to defy them. No, he'd wait until the moment was right.

“Then we are agreed,” the fairy king said, and the Wizard smiled, matching the king's oily grin with one of his own.

“But of course.” A flicker of uncertainty crossed the fairy's face before vanishing again, and the Wizard smiled to himself in triumph.
Not so sure of yourself now, are you?
he thought.

“Then let us celebrate,” the fairy king said, “and afterward, we shall return you to the world above to begin your most noble quest.” He clapped his hands, and a parade of extraordinary creatures—lithe, beautiful girls with the bodies of human women and the heads of deer, a fat little troll in an ermine coat far too big for him, a frog the size of a man dressed in a tuxedo with tails—capered into the throne room, bearing platters of steaming dishes and a host of folding tables. Wine poured itself from floating bottles into heavy goblets of silver and gold that settled themselves onto trays, to be whisked about by mournful-looking specters as insubstantial as mist—as the Wizard saw when a fairy walked right through one of them, snatching up a wineglass as the ghostly waiter dissolved and then re-formed. The king himself served the Wizard a heaping portion of roast venison on a white china plate and drew up a folding table and a comfortable little chair before returning to his throne with a plate of his own. And though the room was full of merriment—fairies chatting, gossiping, exclaiming over this delicacy and that—they all ignored the Wizard as completely as if he were
invisible, so that a miserable sense of loneliness punctuated the feast and turned the taste of the meat to ashes in his mouth.

“I had better be going,” he said aloud. No one paid him any attention as he pushed away the table and got up. Without his even reaching for it, the cane found its way to his hand. A dull, shabby corridor that bore a resemblance to the one that had led him to this awful room opened up in the wall before him. And as he stumbled down it, the Sunfruit Schnapps churned in his belly, and he wondered if he was going to be sick. As he left, the fairies' laughter echoed behind him, high-pitched and cruel, and it rang down the hallway after him for a long time.