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“And if he hasn’t?” she said, half to herself.
“Then we must inquire again. Lord Khandarr is a mage. As you observed to Lord Kosenmark, he might be investigating the same clues we do.”
“Is that good or bad?”
Hax laughed drily. “Both. The king must know the state of his borders. Besides …”
Without warning, the vitality drained from his face. Hax let his head sink onto his hands. “I hate it,” he whispered. “I hate that I have two good hours before my body wants sleep. Very well. We shall finish these letters, then I will nap.”
Ilse watched him anxiously. His voice sounded fainter than usual, even knowing he was ill. She’d heard from Kathe that, tired and yet unable to sleep, Hax had finally relented and used Mistress Hedda’s sleeping potion.
Hax lifted his head. “What?”
She looked away, embarrassed that he had caught her staring. “Nothing, sir.”
“You,” he rasped, “are too much like Mistress Hedda. Fetch me those papers from Lord Kosenmark’s office and we shall review the next week’s schedule. Now where is that ink pot? Ah, there.”
He stood and reached across his desk for the ink pot. Unexpectedly, he stopped, and his eyes went blank with surprise. “Ilse?”
Ilse looked up in time to see Hax’s face go stiff and gray. He collapsed, spilling papers and ink over the desk and onto the floor. No. No, no, no. Then she was running from the office and shouting for a runner. Within moments, a liveried girl clattered down the steps from Lord Kosenmark’s office.
“Fetch Mistress Hedda,” Ilse said. “Now! Run!”
She darted back into Hax’s office. Hax remained crumpled over his desk, motionless. Her heart thumping hard, she rounded the desk and saw that his lips moved. He was breathing, a frightening bubbling sound that made her go cold. She bent close and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Maester Hax, I’ve sent for Mistress Hedda. She will be here soon.”
Hax’s fingers spasmed into a fist. “Soon. Get him. Please.”
“Who? Lord Kosenmark?”
He made a strangled sound, wet and harsh. Ilse dashed out the door again, and ran into Kathe, who carried a flask in her hand. “Ilse!” Kathe was gasping for breath. “Freda said that Maester Hax—”
“He’s had a fit,” Ilse said. “Stay with him. I’m going to find Lord Kosenmark.”
“In the training yard,” Kathe called after her.
She hardly knew how she could run so fast without stumbling. Down the stairs. Out the closest side door. Down the lane and through the gates to the rear courtyard where Lord Kosenmark had his sessions with his weapons master.
He was there, wooden sword beating a fierce attack against Benedikt Ault’s rapid defense. “My lord,” she cried, running to him. “Maester Hax needs you.”
Kosenmark stopped in mid-swing. Not waiting for him to speak, Ilse seized his free hand. “Now, my lord!”
She didn’t know what he did with his sword. She only knew that he had taken her hand and they were both running through the pleasure house and up the stairs to Hax’s office.
Mistress Hedda had not arrived yet, but Kathe had been feeding Hax the concoction left for such a crisis. Kathe herself looked shaken, though she continued to speak calmly to Hax. She had made him as comfortable as she could in that short time—clearing away the papers, giving him sips of wine between those of medicine.
“Come,” Hax whispered. “Raul. Please.”
Kosenmark crossed the room. Kathe withdrew. Ilse started to follow, but Kosenmark motioned for her to stay. He dropped to his knees beside Hax and bent close. “Berthold,” he said, and his soft high voice went higher.
“Closer,” Hax wheezed.
Ilse heard nothing of their whispered conversation, but she heard how Kosenmark’s voice flattened out, and how Hax paused between each word. He’s dying. He knows it, she thought. How did a man bid a friend good-bye forever?
“Promise,” Hax said. His voice had gained strength. “Remember.”
“I remember, Berthold. Hush. Rest.”
“Promise,” Hax repeated. “In case …”
