Chapter 50: The Debt of Iron

The horn sounded again, closer now, and Drogo felt the vibration in the stones beneath his feet. He had sent his messages—two crows, two lies, two armies that would soon collide in his name—and now there was nothing left to do but wait for the world to catch fire.

Bernard stood at the window, watching the rain sheet down against the torches of the approaching riders. “They fly Lothar’s banner,” he said. “He has come himself.”

“Of course he has.” Drogo moved to the brazier, warming his hands though the night was not cold. “He believes I am ready to surrender. He believes the Empress has prepared the way. He believes he has already won.”

“And when he discovers the truth?”

Drogo turned, and his face was very still. “Then I will have to make certain he does not discover it until it is too late to matter.”

The door of the chamber burst open, and Judith of Bavaria stood on the threshold, her gown soaked at the hem, her eyes bright with a fire that had nothing to do with the torches behind her. She was breathing hard, and for a moment Drogo saw something in her face that he had never seen before—fear.

“You have done it,” she said. “You have brought him here early.”

“You sent for him,” Drogo said mildly. “I merely made certain he would come.”

Judith stepped into the room, and Bernard moved aside as though she carried a blade. She stopped before Drogo, close enough that he could smell the rain in her hair and the wine on her breath.

“Lothar is not coming to Aachen to negotiate,” she said. “He is coming to claim. He has brought three thousand men, and they are camped beyond the river. He will enter the palace tomorrow at dawn, and he will expect to find his father waiting to crown him.”

“Then he will be disappointed.”

“He will be furious.”

Drogo smiled. “Furious men make mistakes. Mistake-making men are easier to guide.”

Judith’s jaw tightened. “You think you can guide him? You think you can guide any of them? They are not pieces on a board, Drogo. They are wolves, and they have smelled blood.”

“Then I will have to be the shepherd who leads them to a different slaughter.”

Something flickered in Judith’s eyes—respect, perhaps, or the beginning of understanding. She had spent years trying to secure her own son’s future, moving pieces across the same board, and now she saw in Drogo a player she had underestimated.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“I want you to tell Lothar that I have the seal. I want you to tell him that I am willing to give it to him, but only if he swears to spare our father’s life and to grant me a quiet abbacy far from court.”

Judith’s eyes narrowed. “You would give him the seal? You would hand him the empire?”

“I would hand him a piece of wax and a ribbon,” Drogo said. “The seal is only powerful because men believe it is. If Lothar believes he holds it, he will stop watching his brothers. He will stop watching me. And that is when the real work begins.”

Judith was silent for a long moment. The rain hammered against the shutters, and somewhere below, Drogo could hear the sound of boots on stone—Lothar’s men, entering the palace, taking their positions.

“You are playing a dangerous game,” she said finally.

“All games are dangerous,” Drogo replied. “The only question is whether you are willing to lose everything to win.”

Judith held his gaze, and then she nodded slowly. “I will tell him. But when this is done, Drogo, you will owe me a debt.”

“I owe you nothing,” Drogo said, and his voice was cold now, cold as the rain outside. “You tried to have Bernard killed. You tried to have me killed. You have spent the better part of a year trying to destroy me.”

“And yet you are still standing,” Judith said. “Which means you are either very lucky or very good. I have decided to believe you are very good.”

She turned and left without another word, and Bernard moved to stand beside Drogo, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“She will betray you,” Bernard said.

“Of course she will,” Drogo said. “She is Judith of Bavaria. Betrayal is the only language she speaks.”

“Then why trust her with anything?”

Drogo turned to face him, and for the first time that night, his smile faded completely. “Because I am not trusting her with the truth. I am trusting her with a lie so beautiful that she will not be able to resist telling it.”

The door burst open again, and this time it was not Judith. It was a man Drogo had never seen before, wearing Lothar’s colors, his face hard and his hand on his sword.

“Prince Drogo,” the man said. “My lord Lothar requests your presence. Now.”

Drogo straightened his tunic and smoothed his hair. He had played the fool for so long that the mask had become a second skin, but tonight he would need to be something else entirely.

He would need to be a ghost.

“Lead the way,” he said.

The man turned, and Drogo followed him into the corridor, Bernard falling into step behind them. The palace was alive with movement now—men in armor, servants with torches, the distant sound of horses and harness. Lothar had not come to negotiate. He had come to take.

They descended the great staircase, past the chapel where Drogo had once knelt beside his father, past the hall where he had planted the first seed of doubt in Lothar’s mind. The doors to the throne room were open, and inside, the candles were burning bright.

Lothar stood at the far end of the hall, beside the empty throne. He was taller than Drogo remembered, broader, more certain of himself. He wore a crown of gold and jewels, and his eyes were bright with the fire of conquest.

“Drogo,” Lothar said, and his voice echoed across the stone. “My little brother. The fool. The laggard. The ghost.”

Drogo bowed low, and when he rose, his smile was in place. “Brother. You have come far.”

“I have come to claim what is mine,” Lothar said. “The seal. The throne. The empire.”

“And you shall have them,” Drogo said. “All of them.”

Lothar’s eyes narrowed. “You are too agreeable. What do you want?”

Drogo met his gaze, and for a moment, the mask slipped. “I want peace,” he said. “I want an end to the bloodshed. I want a quiet corner of the world where I can live out my days without fear of my brothers’ knives.”

“And you will have it,” Lothar said. “Once I am emperor.”

“Then I am yours to command,” Drogo said, and he knelt.

But as he knelt, his hand moved to his sleeve, and he felt the weight of the seal against his arm—the seal he had stolen, the seal he would never give up, the seal that was the only thing standing between Lothar and the throne.

Lothar smiled, and Drogo smiled back, and neither of them knew which of them was the fool.

But Drogo did know one thing, as the rain hammered against the palace walls and the candles guttered in the draft: he had one night to unmake everything Lothar believed, and he would spend every moment of it weaving a web so intricate that even he would not be able to find the way out.