Chapter 64: The Debt of the Waxing Moon

The corridor was empty, but Drogo knew emptiness was a lie. Every shadow in Aachen had eyes now, every flicker of torchlight a tongue that would wag before matins. He walked with the unhurried gait of a man who had nowhere to be and nothing to hide, the seal cold against his wrist where he had bound it with a strip of linen.

Bernard kept pace beside him, his tread heavier, his hand never far from the dagger at his belt. The freed courtier had not spoken since they left the chamber, and Drogo preferred it so. Words were coins spent too freely in this place; silence was the only currency that held its weight.

They passed the chapel where the night lamps burned low, and Drogo paused. Through the gap in the door he could see his father, bent over the altar like a willow stripped of its bark. Louis the Pious prayed with his whole body, shoulders shaking with the effort of words Drogo could not hear. The emperor of the Franks, crowned by God and acclaimed by men, reduced to a supplicant before a piece of carved stone and the memory of a father who had conquered the world.

Drogo looked away.

“He will not survive the winter,” Bernard said quietly. “Not this one. Not the way he looks now.”

“He has survived worse.”

“Has he? When? He has been betrayed by his sons, humiliated by his wife, stripped of his authority by bishops who should have been his shepherds. And now—” Bernard’s voice caught. “Now he prays to a God who has not answered him in years.”

Drogo turned. “You pity him.”

“I pity any man who loves too deeply and is loved too little in return.”

The words hung between them, and Drogo felt their weight settle on his shoulders like a cloak of chainmail. He had spent so long playing the fool that he had almost forgotten what it meant to feel. But Bernard’s words found the crack in his armor, the place where he kept the memory of his father’s hand on his head, blessing him as a child, before the crowns and the wars and the betrayals had turned them all into players in a game none of them had chosen.

“I will not let him die alone,” Drogo said. “That is the one promise I have kept.”

“And the seal?”

Drogo touched his wrist. “The seal is the means. Not the end.”

He resumed walking, and Bernard followed. They descended the spiral stair that led to the lower galleries, where the archives lay stacked with charters and chronicles and the bones of decisions made by men long dead. The air here was cold and still, smelling of parchment and dust and the faint sweetness of beeswax from the candles that burned at intervals along the walls.

“The message to Louis the German,” Bernard said. “You have not sent it.”

“Not yet. I am still deciding what it should say.”

“You told me you would make him believe he is the only one who sees the truth.”

“I will. But truth is a blade that cuts both ways. If I give him too much, he will march before I am ready. If I give him too little, he will dismiss it as the ravings of a fool.” Drogo stopped before a heavy oak door bound in iron. “The question is not what I tell him. The question is what I make the others tell him.”

Bernard frowned. “I do not understand.”

“You will.” Drogo pushed open the door.

The chamber beyond was small, windowless, lit by a single candle that guttered in the draft. A man sat at the table within, his hands bound before him, his face bruised and swollen. He looked up as Drogo entered, and hatred flickered in his eyes like a dying coal.

“You,” the man said.

“Me,” Drogo agreed. He closed the door behind him and took a seat across from the prisoner. “You served Pepin well, Guntram. You crossed the Loire with a message that would have brought an army to our gates. I should thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“For showing me what my brother truly intends. For proving that he will not be satisfied with anything less than the crown itself.” Drogo leaned forward. “And for giving me a way to reach him.”

Guntram spat on the floor. “I will tell him nothing.”

“You will not have to. I will tell him myself.” Drogo drew the seal from his sleeve and laid it on the table between them. The wax gleamed in the candlelight, the image of Saint Peter’s keys clear and unmistakable. “But I need you to confirm a detail for me. A small thing. A matter of timing.”

The prisoner’s eyes fixed on the seal, and Drogo watched the calculation flicker behind them. Guntram was no fool. He had been Pepin’s messenger for years, trusted with secrets that could topple kingdoms. He knew what the seal meant, and he knew what it would mean to his master.

“You have stolen the emperor’s seal,” Guntram said slowly.

“Borrowed. There is a difference.”

“You will use it to betray someone.”

“I will use it to end a war.” Drogo turned the seal over in his fingers. “Tell me: when Pepin crosses the Loire, does he march with his full force, or does he leave men behind to guard his southern borders?”

Guntram’s jaw tightened. “I will not tell you.”

“You do not need to. I already know he has split his army. Half remains at Toulouse, watching for the Saracens. The other half marches north, perhaps three thousand strong.” Drogo smiled. “Tell me, Guntram, is that estimate accurate?”

The prisoner said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.

“Good.” Drogo rose. “That is all I needed.”

He turned to leave, and Guntram’s voice stopped him at the door.

“What will you do with him? With Pepin?”

Drogo looked back. The candlelight caught his face, and for a moment the mask slipped, showing something beneath that was neither cruel nor kind, but something else entirely.

“I will give him what he wants,” Drogo said. “I will give him Aachen. I will give him the throne. I will give him everything he has ever dreamed of.” He paused. “And then I will take it all away.”

He left the chamber, and the door closed behind him with a sound like a coffin being shut.

Bernard was waiting in the corridor, his face pale in the torchlight. “What do you intend?”

“I intend to make Pepin believe he has already won. I intend to make Lothar believe he is the only one who can stop him. I intend to make Louis the German believe he is the only one who sees the truth.” Drogo tucked the seal back into his sleeve. “And I intend to make Judith believe I am her creature, dancing to a tune she has written.”

“That is a great many lies.”

“It is a great many threads.” Drogo began to walk, his steps quickening. “But they are all woven into the same tapestry. And when the pattern is complete, there will be only one image left to see.”

“Which is?”

Drogo reached the stair and began to climb. “Peace,” he said. “Or the grave. I have not yet decided which I deserve.”

The door to the upper gallery opened, and a servant stood there, face flushed with urgency.

“My lord,” the servant said, bowing. “The Empress Judith requests your presence. Immediately.”

Drogo’s smile did not waver. “Of course she does.”

He followed the servant, and Bernard fell into step behind him, and the rain began to fall again against the windows of Aachen, a soft persistent drumbeat that seemed to count the hours until the storm would break.