Chapter 20
Part III

Days passed, and they marched ever further under the Shadow. Stannis Baratheon had not told his captains how much he hurt from the mere presence of the Shadow. It was only pain, and he hated to look weak, even in front of those he trusted more than anyone. This close to Stygai, the Shadow pressed heavy upon him, relentlessly seeking to devour him. He felt it on his soul like a weight of mountains. A greenseer's soul was meant to fly free, to spin through space and time surveying whatever it pleased. Now he was chaining himself to his body, tighter than he had ever constrained himself before, and the effort of that task took up every fragment of his force of will. The slightest slip of his attention, he well knew, would mean a fate infinitely worse than death.

In the distance, Stygai's midnight spires were towering over the horizon, miles tall. They were not yet close. It was hard to imagine how large Stygai must be for it to be seen at all from this far. He had thought the City of the Dead must be enormous. He had underestimated it. It was vast enough that ten copies of Old Volantis or a hundred King's Landings could be swallowed up within its walls.

When he could, Stannis lay prone in a tent or on a wagon, resting to recover his strength from the great wound on his belly and the starvation he had suffered. But ofttimes he could not. Thrice came the Taken, the damned souls condemned to the everlasting dark, and thrice Stannis was forced to call witchlight to repel them.

Each time, the effort and the agony of it was like gouging a dagger into his own chest, and it set back his recovery by weeks. He did not have those weeks. He barely had days.

It was night—of course, for here it was always night, but night in more meanings than one. The Swords of the Storm were at rest. They could not march forever, so they declared part of the time to be like day and part to be like night, though there was never light in either. There were a few quiet sounds of watchful sentries pacing around and sharpening their swords, but little else. Most of the men were aslumber.

Stannis was not. He lay abed but sleep could not take him. Not here, not now, not with the spirit-weight of the Shadow pressing like a mountain on his back. It had been days since he had slept. He felt it every second of every day, an ever-burning darkness that regarded him without cease. Sometimes he even thought he heard it whisper.

COME TO ME, SSSSSSTORMCHILD…

YOU WILL SSSSSSEE…

Shivering, Stannis stood. He could not sleep, though he still tried to, and he found himself not in a mood to lie motionless, his every thought filled with the Shadow looming. Restless, he donned a plain black robe, clipped his sword to his belt and left the tent. These days, for safety's sake, he was never parted from his Valyrian steel. He took long purposeful strides. In less than a minute he was where he meant to be.

He nodded to the watchman, put a hand to the tent-flap and pushed his way in. The surgeon looked up and saw a towering figure in black, far taller than other men, almost bloodless pale and so gaunt as to be more skeleton than man.

"Ah, commander." The surgeon spoke without fear or surprise. He had probably seen more of Stannis since his awakening than anyone else, including the Black Captains.

"How is he?" To his own ears Stannis's voice was cracked and hoarse.

"Bad. Getting worse." The surgeon grimaced.

Stannis crossed the distance in two long steps and knelt at the bedside. "Marro, can you hear me?"

On the bed, Marro Namerin's eyelids fluttered open. "Commander?" He looked straight up at Stannis's face, grey eyes unseeing. "Did you go?"

"I am still here," Stannis murmured.

"Commander." Marro took a deep, rattling breath. "I can't see you. There is no light."

Stannis frowned. It was dark, of course, but he had thought it no darker than it always was, here in their camp in the Shadow Lands. Mayhaps he had been mistaken.

"See to it," snapped Stannis. When there was no sound of movement, he said, "Well? Did you not hear the captain? Bring him some light!"

"Commander," the surgeon said, hesitant. "Look here."

Stannis looked. There, flame bright in the glass, was a lantern. It was only two feet from Marro.

"There is light," the surgeon pointed out.

"Then bring more lanterns!" Stannis snarled. "I don't care where you get them from. Bring them now!"

The surgeon bowed. "As you wish." He went.

"I am sorry for that," Stannis said to Marro. "There will be light soon."

"Good…" Marro stopped speaking. He clenched his fist and bit his tongue. To spare Marro's pride Stannis said nothing, but he did not fail to note the signs of pain.

The surgeon came back in, holding another two lanterns. By now the tent was bright indeed, some of the brightest Stannis had seen during their time in the Shadow Lands. It was like a moonlit, starlit night from the outside world. It was of course nothing like a day.

"There. Better," Stannis said gruffly. He leant over Marro. "Here I am, you see. I did not leave you."

Marro's eyes still gazed up at him, wandering as if they could not see him. "Commander. There is no light."

Stannis's blood ran cold. "There is light. Look, here it is."

"There is no light," Marro repeated. "There is only darkness. I can't see, commander." His voice quivered. "It's gone like my dreams. There is only darkness, and fire, and the night that never ends."

"Do not say that!" Stannis's voice cracked like a whip.

"It's what I see," Marro said, his voice high with pain. "Commander, I'm not going to get better."

"You will," Stannis snapped. "Don't worry overmuch. I know it must be a fearful thing, but it will pass."

"It is not passing," said Marro. He shook his shoulder, bearing the empty stump of an arm, ending before the elbow. "It's spreading. It hurts like a burning brand, and it hurts worse every day."

"We can put some more poultices to cool it."

"Poultices will do nothing for this. Touch me, commander." When Stannis did nothing, he shouted, "Touch me!"

Tentatively Stannis reached out to lay a hand gently on Marro's forehead. He recoiled. Marro's skin was not just hot; it was blazing hot, as if he had reached into a hearth to grasp the flame.

His old master's voice came back to him as if mocking. In sorcery, the power of the cold is the power of the light, the three-eyed crow said, and likewise joined are fire and darkness.

Angrily Stannis dismissed the thought.

"I know what's happening, commander," Marro said. "I think you know, too."

He didn't say. Stannis didn't, either. Neither of them would say the word: Taken.

Marro went on, "Stop it. Please."

"No," said Stannis at once, at war against the very thought.

"Did you lie to us?" Marro demanded. "You told us all, commander, at this journey's beginning. I remember your words well. They were the sort of words a man doesn't easily forget. 'One drop will doom you till the world dies', you said. If you see someone's drowning in the river, you said, shoot him dead before he can open his mouth. His soul would thank you for it." Marro stopped to catch a breath. "Was that a lie?"

"I did not lie."

"Then do it," Marro said. His one good arm reached out clumsily for Stannis, grabbing Stannis's sword arm. "My soul would thank you for it. Do it now."

"I cannot," Stannis said. He pulled his sword arm away.

"You must. It's pressing on me." Neither of them spoke it, but there was no doubt what he meant by it. "It grows close. Compared to that, death is a mercy. I need you to kill me. Kill me now."

"I cannot. I cannot," said Stannis, his voice cracking. "You know not what you ask of me."

"There is no light. There is no light," said Marro. "My dreams are all of pain in the darkness, and now they are real. You don't understand, commander. There is no light!"

He spoke the words like a madman's chant. In that last incantation his voice rose to a shriek.

"The whole world has turned to darkness and pain. I can barely tell dreaming from day anymore," cried Marro, tears dripping down his face. "Only by your voice. You are my only chance. The way out. Elsewise it's forever." The hardened sellsword's voice broke to a sob of terror and pain. "Don't let it take me, don't, don't, don't, please dear gods dear gods don't let it take me."

"No. No," said Stannis, backing away as if from an enemy. "Marro, please, do not ask this. Not this. Anything but this. Please. Do not, do not, do not ask this of me."

"I ask this," Marro said through the tears. "Commander. No—" And for the first time in all their many years, he addressed his commander by name. "Stannis. Please."

Stannis drew his sword.

He wept, and wept, and wept. When he had no more tears to give, he rose to his feet, slowly. Softly, gently, as if afraid of inflicting hurt, he touched a hand to the face of his closest friend in the world. He touched it again, as if unable to understand. It was turning pale and cold.

He lingered there a moment longer, his hand wavering, trembling. Then he turned and walked away. The stormy waters of his mind crystallised into cold resolve. There was duty to be done.