Chapter 161

THE FESTIVAL was very different from Riocht's. Turning Night, for Wil, had always been a strange mix of anticipation and dread. Once the shakes and spasms tapered off, and the cramps had died down to a dull, achy need, the call of seeing the stars again, and the hopeless but ever-present dream of escape--one way or another--would rise up and set his heart racing with life he'd forgotten was even in him. Faces staring up at him, an endless sea of faces, and he couldn't see a single one of them, not clearly, and he used to wonder if any of them might somehow see, might know. How many of them had he seen in dreams? And if he'd been in their dreams, how could they not understand, feel his pain, take pity, or even succumb to fear and hatred and send an arrow sailing up to the ramparts, strike him down as he mouthed blessings he didn't believe and didn't hear?