"So far, it's a pretty good guess," Sam had to admit.

Azador had already descended from the bridge and was making his way up the dark soil of the bank, apparently headed for the trees.

"We should stop," !Xabbu called after him. "It is getting dark!" Azador did not slow or even turn. "We will have to hurry to keep up with him," !Xabbu told Sam. "If we lose him in the trees we may never find him again."

The bridge sloped down to the bank, joining a road so overgrown with grass that they had not been able to see it from the river. The track, filled with ancient ruts and a few that looked more recent, curved away up into the woods. Sam looked back. Jongleur was still behind them, his slow stride that of a man walking into a dark and doomful place.

They caught up with Azador as he passed under the edge of the trees.

"I think it is time to stop," !Xabbu told him. "It is getting dark, and we are tired."

Azador turned to regard him with strangely mild eyes. "It's just ahead."

"What is just ahead?"

"There will be fires—many fires. The horses will be brushed, shiny. All the band will be wearing their finest clothes. And singing!" He seemed to be talking to someone else: his eyes had returned to the winding track between the trees. "Shoon! Listen! I can almost hear them!"

Sam, on the edge of a question, closed her mouth. She heard nothing but the velvety rubbing of the wind through countless branches.

Azador's face showed that he too was listening; after a moment, his gaze grew troubled. "No, I cannot. Perhaps we are not close enough yet."

Sam was footsore, exhausted. They had spent all of a long wearying day searching for the bridge, and now that they had crossed it she certainly did not want to want to spend the rest of the night following Azador through the wilderness as he searched for magic elves or forest musicians or whatever it was he was seeking. She was about to tell him so, but something in his eyes, a haunted but also hopeful look unlike anything she had seen in him so far, kept her quiet.

The forest was more real than anything since they had first reached the black mountain, the trees almost perfect, although where she could see their upper branches in the fading light the leaves were not sharp and individual, but seemed to blur into a cloudy mass. Still, there was recognizable grass underfoot, even if thicker and more like a lawn than what Sam guessed you would find in a real wild wood, and moss on the stones and tree trunks. The only thing that seemed distinctly wrong was the absence of wind or bird or cricket sounds. The woods were as silent as an empty church.

Azador led them on, lifting his hands before him wonderingly as though to touch the things he saw, lost in some kind of waking dream. Even Jongleur seemed struck by the strangeness of their forest journey, bringing up the back of the tiny procession in silence.

"Where are we?" Sam whispered, but !Xabbu had stopped, wide-eyed. A piece of pale cloth dangled beside the path, rippling in the faint breeze, "Chizz—is it from Renie?"

!Xabbu's face fell, "It cannot be. The color is wrong, more yellow than what you and she are wearing, and there is too much of it."

But the strip of cloth seemed to mean something to Azador, who reached out and touched it carefully, then left the wide track and struck out across the woods. He was moving quickly now; Sam and !Xabbu had to hurry to keep up.

A piece of blood-red fabric dangled on a shrub; Azador turned left. A hundred paces later two white strips side by side marked one edge of a clearing. Azador turned his back on them and walked out the other side. They emerged from a screen of trees onto a hillside and found the woodland road again, or one much like it, torn with the passage of many wheels.

They followed this track down into a grove of tall trees with twisted gray trunks. Now Sam could smell smoke. Inside the dense ring of trees, hidden from anyone outside, stood the wagons.

At first Sam thought they had stumbled on some odd kind of circus. Even in the dying light the wagons were stunning, two dozen or more, painted with many colors in almost unbelievable combinations, striped and swirled and checked, festooned with feathers and tassels, brass fittings on the wheels and doors. So splendid was the sight that it took her a moment to realize something was wrong.

"But . . . where is everybody?"

Azador groaned, staring around wildly as he entered the clearing, as though the crowd of people and horses who brought the wagons to this place might be hiding behind a tree. Sam and !Xabbu followed him. Azador stopped and stiffened, then bolted across the open ground. A wavering line of smoke drifted up from behind one of the farthest wagons, a somber vehicle by comparison to the rest, painted in deep midnight blue and dotted with white stars.

A small fire burned in a circle of stones on the ground beside the wagon. A set of steps had been unfolded between the high wooden wheels. On the bottom step, smoking a pipe and wearing a bonnet, sat what Sam at first thought was an old woman; only as she got closer did she notice that the stranger was slightly transparent around the edges.

Azador stopped in front of the figure and sank into a crouch before her. "Where have they gone?"

The woman looked up. Sam felt a chill. What she could see of the woman's face looked as smoky as the gray plumes curling above the fire, the eyes only points of light, small but bright as the coals at the edge of the fire pit.

"You come back to us, Azador." Her voice was strangely resonant, not at all as insubstantial as the rest of her. "Out of time, my chabo, my ill-omened one. Your name proves a true name. They all are gone."

"Gone?" The misery in his voice was palpable. "All?"

"All. The morts and their mards, all the children. They have run ahead of the Ending. As you see, some were so fearful they even left their vardoni behind." She looked to the wagons and shook her head in disapproval. Azador seemed stunned. Clearly leaving without these bright, beloved vehicles was a sign of something very dire. "And at the last, here you are. It was an unlucky day when you left. Now it is an equally unlucky day when you return."

"Where . . . where have they gone, Stepmother?"

"The Ending is coming. All the Romany have gone to the Well. The One has commanded it. They hope when they get there, the Black Lady will speak to them, tell them some way to save themselves."

"But why are you still here, Stepmother?"

"I could not rest until all my chabos had been told. It was my task. Now that you are back, after all these years, my task is ended." She stood up and mounted slowly to the door of her wagon. "Now at last I can go."

"But how do I get to the Well?" Azador was on the verge of tears. "I can remember so little. Will you take me with you?"

She shook her head; for a moment the light of her eyes was shrouded. "I am not going there. My task is ended." She began to turn away, then hesitated. "Always I knew your destiny was a strange one, an unhappy one, my lost chabo. When you were born, I read the leaves—oh, what sadness! He will die by his own hand, but unwillingly, that is what they told me. But perhaps it can be different. Now, when all is coming to an end, when even the One himself is dying, who can say what will happen?"

"How do I reach the Well?" Azador asked again. "I cannot remember."

"You of all the Romany, who left the world of his forefathers to go who knows where—you can find your way. Not across the world but through it. Inward. To the place where you touch the One, as we all do." It was impossible to read expressions in the smoky countenance, but Sam thought the next words might almost be spoken with a smile. "Perhaps you will even reach the place before the rest of your people. Just like the Unlucky One that would be, eh? To leave after the others, but to reach the Ending first?" She nodded, then stepped into the darkness of her wagon. Azador dragged himself to his feet, one hand stretched toward the place where the thing he called his stepmother had, stood, but the firelight flickered and the wagon faded until all that could be seen were the pale painted stars that had decorated its side, hanging in the air like the dying image of a pyrotechnic display. Then even the stars were gone.