Chapter 48: The Debt of Ashes

The rain had not stopped for three days. Drogo could feel it in his bones, a cold that seeped through the stone walls of the Palatine Chapel and into the marrow of Aachen itself. The city smelled of wet ash and desperation.

Judith’s men had not moved from the corridor. They stood like statues, their breath misting in the torchlight, their hands resting on sword hilts that seemed eager for use. She had not arrested him—not yet—but the cage was gilded and the door was shut.

Bernard stood at the window, watching the courtyard below. “She has doubled the guard,” he said quietly. “And she has sent riders east.”

“To Lothar,” Drogo said, not asking.

“To Lothar. She means to force your hand before the week is out.”

Drogo turned the seal over in his fingers. The wax of Saint Peter’s face caught the candlelight, and for a moment he saw his father’s eyes in the hollows of the carving. Louis had trusted him with this. Louis had believed him.

And Drogo had stolen it.

“She thinks I will use it to crown Lothar,” Drogo said. “Or to destroy him. She cannot decide which terrifies her more.”

“And which will you do?”

Drogo smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Neither. I will use it to save my father.”

Bernard turned from the window, his face carved from the same stone as the walls. “Your father is dying, Drogo. You have seen it. The penances have broken him. The betrayals have hollowed him out. He will not survive another war.”

“Then I will make sure there is no war.”

“There is already war. Pepin is marching. Lothar is gathering. Louis the German sharpens his knives in Bavaria. You cannot unring the bell.”

Drogo stood, and the seal disappeared into his sleeve. “No. But I can change what the bell means when it rings.”

He moved toward the door, and Bernard stepped into his path.

“Judith will not let you leave this room without her permission.”

“Judith is not in this room.”

“Her men are.”

Drogo’s smile returned, thin and sharp. “Then I will have to be very convincing.”

He opened the door before Bernard could argue further. The guards in the corridor straightened, their hands tightening on their weapons. Drogo spread his arms wide, a gesture of surrender so complete it almost looked like an embrace.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I have decided to see the empress. I trust you will escort me.”

The guards exchanged glances. The eldest of them, a grizzled veteran with a scar that ran from temple to jaw, stepped forward.

“The empress said you were to remain here.”

“The empress,” Drogo said, his voice soft as silk, “also said she would see me hanged if I so much as breathed wrong. Yet here I stand, breathing. Perhaps she has changed her mind. Or perhaps she would prefer I make her change it.”

The veteran’s eyes narrowed. He was a soldier, not a courtier. He understood blades and blood, not words and whispers. Drogo saw the calculation in his face, the flicker of doubt that came from a man who knew he was out of his depth.

“I will ask her,” the veteran said finally.

“You will do that,” Drogo agreed. “And while you do, I will wait in the chapel. It seems fitting, don’t you think? A son praying for his father’s soul.”

He did not wait for permission. He walked past the guards, his steps unhurried, his hands clasped behind his back. The veteran hesitated, then gestured for two men to follow.

The chapel was empty. The candles had burned low, their flames guttering in the drafts that slipped through the ancient stones. Drogo knelt before the altar, his head bowed, his lips moving in prayers he did not feel.

But his eyes were open.

He watched the shadows. He counted the guards. He noted the doors, the windows, the small alcove where a man might hide if he were quick enough and quiet enough.

And he waited.

The veteran returned within the hour, his face unreadable. “The empress will see you.”

Drogo rose, brushing the dust from his knees. “How gracious of her.”

The corridors were empty, the servants having fled to their quarters or to safer corners of the city. The rain hammered against the windows, and Drogo could hear the distant sound of horns—not war horns, not yet, but the kind of horns that carried news from the road.

Judith was in her chambers, seated before a fire that crackled and spat. She did not rise when Drogo entered. She did not even look at him.

“You have been busy,” she said.

“I have been patient,” Drogo replied. “There is a difference.”

“Is there?” She turned, and her eyes were cold as winter. “You stole your father’s seal. You freed Bernard. You sent word to Pepin that the gates of Aachen will open for him. And now you come to me, as if we are allies.”

“We are not allies,” Drogo said. “We are two people who want the same thing.”

“And what is that?”

“Peace.”

Judith laughed, and the sound was brittle as old bone. “You think I want peace? I want my son to sit on the throne of Charlemagne. I want his name to echo through eternity. Peace is what men who have nothing else claim to want.”

“Then you will not have peace,” Drogo said. “And neither will Charles.”

Her face tightened at the mention of her son’s name. Good. That was the crack he needed.

“Charles is a child,” Drogo continued. “He is innocent of all this. But when Lothar takes the crown, what do you think will happen to that child? Do you think Lothar will let him live? Do you think Pepin will spare him because he is young?”

Judith’s hands curled into fists. “You dare threaten my son?”

“I am not threatening him. I am warning you. The war is coming, Judith. Pepin is marching. Lothar is gathering. Louis the German is sharpening his knives. And when the blood is spilled, it will not be the kings who suffer. It will be the children. It will be the innocent. It will be everyone who ever stood too close to a throne.”

He stepped closer, and for the first time, he saw fear in her eyes.

“I have the seal,” he said. “I can use it to crown Lothar. I can use it to destroy Pepin. I can use it to make your son a name that history will remember. Or I can use it to end this before it begins.”

“And what do you want in return?”

Drogo met her gaze, and his voice was quiet as ash.

“I want you to trust me.”

Judith stared at him for a long moment. The fire crackled. The rain hammered. And somewhere in the distance, the horns sounded again—closer now, and unmistakable.

War horns.

“Trust you?” Judith whispered. “You, who have lied to every man who ever trusted you?”

Drogo smiled, and it was the smile of a man who had already lost everything.

“Yes,” he said. “Trust me. Because I am the only one who knows how this story ends.”