Chapter 35: The Empress’s Price

The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in sheets across Aachen, turning the cobbled streets into rivers of mud and the palace courtyards into shallow lakes that reflected the grey, weeping sky. Drogo stood at the window of his chamber, watching the water slide down the glass like tears, and wondered if God was weeping for what was about to happen.

The seal was gone. He had sent it south with a trusted messenger, a man who owed him nothing and therefore could not be bought. The seal would reach Lothar within the week, and with it a letter in Drogo’s own hand—a letter confessing that the emperor was mad, that the realm was collapsing, that Lothar must come and claim what was rightfully his. The letter was a masterpiece of betrayal, so convincing that Drogo almost believed it himself.

But the seal was only half the gambit. The other half was Judith.

She had summoned him to her chambers that morning, and he had known better than to refuse. The Empress’s web was everywhere, and he had woven himself into it deliberately, but that did not mean he trusted the silk not to strangle him.

He turned from the window and made his way through the corridors, past the guards who nodded to him with the lazy familiarity they reserved for the emperor’s useless youngest son. They did not see the man behind the languid smile. They saw only a prince who spent his days drinking and his nights in the arms of women who would never be queens. It was a mask he had worn so long that sometimes he forgot the face beneath it.

Judith’s chamber was warm despite the cold outside, a fire crackling in the hearth and casting dancing shadows across the walls. She sat by the fire, her hands folded in her lap, her face a study in patient cruelty. She did not rise when he entered, did not offer him a seat. She simply looked at him with those sharp, knowing eyes and let the silence stretch until it became a weapon.

“You have been busy,” she said at last. Her voice was soft, almost musical, the voice of a woman who had learned that honey could cut deeper than steel.

“I am always busy, Empress.” Drogo bowed, but his eyes never left hers. “The life of a prince is a demanding one. There are hunts to attend, feasts to grace, women to charm.”

“And seals to steal.”

The words hung in the air like a blade. Drogo felt his heart skip, but his face betrayed nothing. He smiled, slow and lazy, and spread his hands.

“A seal? I have no need of such things. I am neither chancellor nor bishop. I am merely my father’s shadow.”

Judith rose from her chair with the grace of a cat, her gown whispering against the stone floor. She crossed the room until she stood before him, close enough that he could smell the lavender she used to scent her hair, close enough that he could see the fine lines of strain around her eyes.

“You are many things, Drogo,” she said quietly. “But you are not a fool. I have known that from the moment I first saw you. And I have known, too, that you would one day move against me.”

“Against you, Empress?” He kept his voice light, almost amused. “I would never presume.”

“No. You would simply scheme.” She reached up and touched his cheek, her fingers cold against his skin. “You stole the seal. You sent word to Lothar. You think I do not know, but I have eyes everywhere, and ears that hear even the whispers of the dead.”

Drogo did not flinch. He had known this moment would come, had planned for it, but the weight of her certainty still pressed against his chest like a stone.

“Then you know what I have done,” he said. “And you know why.”

“I know what you have done,” she corrected, her hand dropping to her side. “I do not know why. And that is what frightens me.”

She turned away and moved back toward the fire, her silhouette sharp against the flames. “My son Charles is the future of this dynasty. He is young, strong, and his blood is as royal as any who have sat upon the throne. But he is not the eldest, and the laws of the Franks favor the firstborn. Unless I move carefully, Lothar will inherit everything, and Charles will be nothing but a footnote in the histories.”

“You have made that clear,” Drogo said. “Many times.”

“Then you understand why I cannot allow you to interfere.” She looked over her shoulder at him, and her eyes were hard as winter. “You have played your game well, Drogo. You have made Lothar believe you are his ally. You have made Pepin believe you are his friend. You have made your father believe you are still his innocent boy. But I see what you truly are.”

“And what is that, Empress?”

“A man who wants peace,” she said softly. “And peace is the one thing this family cannot afford.”

The words struck him like a blow. He had expected threats, had expected bargains, had expected accusations. But this—this quiet understanding that he was not her enemy but something far more dangerous—this he had not expected.

“Peace is all I have ever wanted,” he said, and his voice was hoarse. “I have watched my father tear himself apart over the love of his sons. I have watched my brothers sharpen their swords against each other. I have watched this empire bleed itself dry for the sake of crowns that will crumble to dust. I want it to end.”

“Then you are a fool after all,” Judith said. “Because it will not end. Not with peace, not with war, not with the Treaty of Verdun or a thousand treaties after. Men will always hunger for power, and they will always be willing to kill for it. You cannot stop that. You can only choose which side of the blade you stand on.”

She moved closer again, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I will make you an offer, Drogo. You will not like it, but you will accept it because you have no other choice.”

“I am listening.”

“The seal you stole—it is worthless to you. Lothar will take it, believe your letter, and march on Aachen. But Lothar is not the threat. He is predictable, proud, and easily manipulated. The real threat is Pepin, who has already crossed the Loire and will be at our gates within a fortnight. If Pepin reaches Aachen first, he will burn it to the ground, and every plan we have laid will turn to ash.”

Drogo felt a cold knot tightening in his stomach. He had sent Bernard to Pepin with a false offer, but he had not expected Pepin to move so quickly. The crossing of the Loire had been a rumor, a threat, a possibility. Now it was a fact.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“I want you to go to Pepin,” Judith said. “I want you to offer him something he cannot refuse. Not the gates of Aachen, not the crown, but something far more valuable. I want you to offer him Lothar’s head.”

The words fell between them like a stone into still water. Drogo stared at her, and for the first time in years, he felt the ground shift beneath his feet.

“You would have me kill my brother?”

“I would have you end this war,” she corrected. “And if Lothar must die for it, then so be it. He has made his choices, and he will face their consequences. But you—you can be the hand that guides the blade. You can be the architect of a peace that will last a generation. All you must do is accept that some blood cannot be washed from your hands.”

Drogo was silent for a long moment. The fire crackled, the rain fell, and somewhere in the palace a bell tolled the hour. He thought of his father, broken and weeping. He thought of his brothers, proud and doomed. He thought of the seal he had stolen, the trap he had set, the war he had hoped to prevent.

“And if I refuse?” he asked.

Judith smiled, and it was the coldest smile he had ever seen.

“Then I will tell Lothar that the seal was a forgery, that you planned to betray him from the beginning, and that the letter he received was a lie designed to lure him into a trap. I will tell Pepin that you offered him false friendship and open gates that would have led to his death. And I will tell your father that his youngest son has been conspiring against him since the day he was born.”

The threat hung in the air, absolute and final. Drogo looked at her, and he knew that she meant every word.

“You would destroy me,” he said.

“I would do what is necessary,” she replied. “As must you.”

The rain continued to fall, and Drogo felt the weight of the world settle upon his shoulders like a shroud. He had wanted peace. He had wanted to save his father’s soul and spare his brothers’ blood. But Judith was right, and the truth of it burned like acid in his throat.

Some blood could not be washed from his hands.

“I will go to Pepin,” he said at last, his voice barely a whisper. “But I will not promise you his victory. I will only promise you my best attempt.”

Judith nodded, and for a moment, something like respect flickered in her eyes.

“That is all I have ever asked of anyone, Drogo. Your best attempt.”

She turned back to the fire, and he knew he had been dismissed. He walked to the door, his legs heavy as lead, and paused with his hand on the latch.

“Empress,” he said, not turning around. “When this is over, when the empire is carved into pieces and the crowns are distributed among the living, do you think you will be happy?”

The silence stretched, and then Judith’s voice came from behind him, soft and sad.

“I think I will be alive,” she said. “And that will have to be enough.”

Drogo opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, where the shadows waited like old friends. He had one day before the messenger reached Lothar. One day before the trap sprang. And now, one day to decide whether he would save his brothers or condemn them.

He began to walk, and the rain followed him like a curse.