Chapter 71: The Hour of the Emperor's Soul

The corridor to the imperial apartments was lit by a single torch, and Guntram carried it with the grim efficiency of a man who had escorted prisoners to worse fates. Drogo walked behind him, counting his steps, feeling the wax impression of his father's seal pressing against his thigh like a secret too heavy to bear.

Judith had given him one hour. One hour to look upon the face of the man who had sired him, who had crowned and uncrowned his brothers, who had wept over betrayals and knelt in penance until his knees bled. One hour to decide whether the seal in his sleeve would destroy the empire or save it.

Guntram stopped at the door. "One hour," he said, not turning. "The empress's orders."

"And if I need more?"

"Then you will find the door barred, and your hour will have been your last."

Drogo smiled, the lazy smile that had fooled a court for years. "I have never needed more than an hour for anything, Guntram. It is the one advantage of being thought a fool."

The guard did not answer. He pushed open the door and stood aside.

The emperor's chamber smelled of incense and sickness. Louis the Pious lay propped against pillows, his face gaunt in the candlelight, his hands folded over a crucifix that had worn a groove in his chest. He looked up when Drogo entered, and something in his eyes—relief, or perhaps recognition—made Drogo's throat tighten.

"You came," Louis said. His voice was thin, scraped raw by weeks of prayer and weeping. "They told me you had fled. That you had joined your brother."

"Which brother, Father?"

"Does it matter?" Louis laughed, a dry sound that became a cough. "They all want my crown. They all want me dead."

Drogo crossed the room and knelt beside the bed. The candlelight caught the emperor's tears, turning them to silver. "I am here," he said. "I have always been here."

"Have you?" Louis's hand found Drogo's shoulder, the grip surprisingly strong. "They say you conspire with Pepin. That you opened the gates of Aachen to him. That you—" He stopped, his breath catching. "That you are the traitor I feared most."

Drogo said nothing. The seal in his sleeve seemed to burn against his skin.

"Tell me it is not true," Louis whispered. "Tell me you are still my son."

The rain hammered against the shutters. Somewhere in the palace, a door slammed, and footsteps echoed down a distant corridor. Drogo thought of Bernard in the dungeons, of Judith's cold smile, of Lothar's army marching through the mud toward Aachen. He thought of the Treaty of Verdun, which had not yet been written, and the blood that would soak the fields of Fontenoy if he did not act.

"Father," he said, "I have lied to you. I have lied to everyone. But I have never lied about this: I want to save you."

Louis's eyes widened. "Save me?"

"Your soul. Your legacy. Your sons." Drogo pulled the seal from his sleeve and laid it on the blanket between them. "This is your authority. Judith took it from your chamber tonight. She meant to use it to crown Charles, to disinherit your other sons, to plunge the empire into a war that would consume us all."

The emperor stared at the seal. His hand trembled as he reached for it, then stopped. "How did you get it?"

"I stole it back."

"From Judith?"

"From her messenger. From her guards. From the shadows she thought were hers alone." Drogo's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of everything he had done. "She knows it is missing. She will come for it. And when she does, she will find me here, with you."

Louis closed his eyes. For a long moment, the only sound was the rain and the rasp of his breathing. Then he said, "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to live, Father. I want you to be the emperor you were meant to be—not the pawn of your wife, not the prisoner of your sons, but the father of us all." Drogo took the seal and pressed it into Louis's hand. "Use this. Not to crown Charles. Not to disinherit Lothar. Use it to call a truce. To summon your sons to a council. To make them see that the only way to save the empire is to stop fighting over it."

"Lothar will never agree."

"Lothar will agree if he believes he has already won."

Louis opened his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Drogo smiled, and this time it was not the fool's smile but something older, sharper. "I have sent word to Pepin that the gates of Aachen will open for him. I have told Lothar that I will surrender the palace to him within the week. They both believe they are marching to victory. They both believe they are the only ones who matter."

"And when they arrive?"

"They will find the gates closed. They will find the emperor waiting for them. They will find their brother—the fool they dismissed—standing between them and their war."

Louis was silent for a long time. The candle guttered, and the shadows danced across his face. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "You would do this? For me?"

"I would do this for all of us. For the empire. For the peace we have never had." Drogo took his father's hand, feeling the bones beneath the skin, the frailty of a man who had tried to hold a continent together with prayer and penance. "I do not want a crown, Father. I never have. I want a world where a clever man can rest. Where brothers do not kill each other over a title. Where the son who was never meant to matter can finally be something more than a shadow."

Louis's eyes filled with tears. "You are not a shadow."

"No," Drogo said. "I am the fool who has been playing a fool's game. And I am done."

The door opened behind them.

Judith stood in the threshold, her face pale, her eyes burning with cold fire. Behind her, Guntram shifted on his feet, his hand on his sword, his gaze fixed on the seal in Louis's hand.

"You have something of mine," she said.

Drogo rose, placing himself between Judith and the emperor. "It was never yours, my lady. It belongs to the emperor. And the emperor is awake."

Judith's smile was thin and sharp. "The emperor is dying. And when he is gone, the seal will be mine. The throne will be mine. My son will be king, and your brothers will tear each other apart while you watch from your little corner of the world." She stepped forward, and the torchlight caught the blade in her hand. "Unless you give me the seal now. Then I might let you live."

Drogo laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "You think I fear death? I have been dead since the day I learned to smile. You think I fear you? I have been playing your game since I was a boy." He spread his arms. "Go on, then. Kill me. But you will have to explain to Lothar why the brother he trusted is dead. You will have to explain to Pepin why the gates he was promised are barred. You will have to explain to your son why his crown is made of blood."

Judith's hand shook. "You think you have won?"

"I think the storm is here," Drogo said. "And I think we are all about to find out who has been playing whom."

Behind him, Louis the Pious rose from his bed, the seal clutched to his chest. His voice, when he spoke, was stronger than it had been in months. "Enough."

Judith froze.

The emperor stepped forward, his bare feet silent on the stone. "You will leave this chamber, my lady. You will go to your apartments and remain there until I send for you. And you will remember that I am still emperor. That I am still your husband. That I am still the father of this kingdom."

Judith's blade lowered. Her eyes flicked between Louis and Drogo, and something in her face—fear, perhaps, or the first stirrings of respect—flickered and died.

"You cannot protect him forever," she said.

"I do not have to," Louis said. "He has been protecting me."

She turned and left. Her footsteps receded down the corridor, and the door closed behind her with a soft click.

Drogo exhaled. His hands were shaking, he realized. He had not known that fear could feel so much like relief.

Louis turned to him. "What now?"

"Now we wait," Drogo said. "Pepin is marching north. Lothar is marching east. Louis the German is somewhere in the middle, waiting to see who wins. Within a fortnight, they will all be here. And then—" He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. "Then we end this."

"And Judith?"

"She will play her part. She always does." Drogo picked up the fallen torch and set it back in its sconce. "But tonight, Father, you should rest. Tomorrow, we will write letters. We will send messengers. We will do what you have always done."

"And what is that?"

"Trust in God," Drogo said. "And in your son."

He knelt once more and kissed his father's hand. Then he left the chamber, closing the door behind him, and stood in the dark corridor with the weight of the seal—the real seal—still pressing against his heart.

The storm was not over. It had barely begun.

But for the first time in years, Drogo felt something he had almost forgotten: hope.