The second letter arrived at an inn two days south of Schneeberg. This one bore a seal Faust recognized instantly: the dragon-head crest of the Frost family, pressed into wax the exact grey-blue of Isbert's eyes.
Isfrid's thumb tore the paper.
He read it once, color draining from his face into the flat stillness of bad news confirmed.
"Grandfather's collapsed again," Isfrid said. His voice was completely level. "The physicians say it's his heart. Mother writes that he's asking for us both." He looked up, his jaw twitching. "She underlined it, Faust. Twice."
Faust took the page.
He didn't need to read it twice.
He had told Isbert months ago that he had half a year left, hoping to be wrong.
He was rarely wrong about the shape of a failing organ.
"Then we go," Faust said, standing up. "Tonight."
"It's four hundred kilometers to Munich."
"Then we ride four hundred kilometers." Faust threw silver across the counter to the innkeeper, demanding fresh teams before the man could finish blinking. "Isbert Frost gave me a century of friendship and asked one favor. I am not letting him die wondering if we kept our word."
Isfrid packed in silence, folding the letter against his chest.
"He'll hold on," he muttered, more to himself than to Faust. "He has to."
Faust kept his mouth shut.
He had buried too many people to trade in false guarantees.
They rode through the night.
They traded exhausted beasts at every post willing to take Faust's coin without asking why a physician and his aide were driving horses into the ground. They passed through Bamberg in the dark, through Nuremberg while the stables were still locked, crossing the Bavarian border before a pale dawn broke over the frost-rimed fields.
"Faster," Isfrid said at every stop, his hand clamped around Isbert's walking cane across his knees. "Please. Faster."
Faust didn't argue.
He whipped the team harder, feeling his own ancient bones protest every jolt of the axle.
He thought of every deathbed he had missed across a century of wandering.
'Let me arrive before the door closes.'
As the sun cleared the hills, the Gothic spires of the Frost estate cut into the morning sky.
Isfrid went rigid on the bench, his eyes fixed on the stone walls, paralyzed by the one thing he hadn't let himself imagine during the ride.
Faust placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
He took the reins, steering the coach down the final stretch of road toward the gates.