Chapter 90: The Light of Aachen

The gates of Aachen opened at dawn, and Drogo rode through them alone.

He had left his father’s sickbed three days before, riding through rain that never seemed to end, through forests where the roads had turned to rivers of mud, through villages where peasants crossed themselves at the sight of a lone rider in imperial colors. He had not slept. He had not eaten. The seal of Saint Peter hung beneath his tunic, cold against his chest, heavier than any sword.

Now he rode through the gates of his father’s capital, and the city was quiet.

Too quiet.

The streets were empty. Shutters closed. The great bronze doors of the Palatine Chapel stood open, and beyond them, he could see the flicker of candles. But the square before it was bare—no guards, no courtiers, no petitioners. Only rain, falling in silver threads across the cobblestones, and the distant rumble of thunder beyond the Rhine.

Drogo dismounted. His boots splashed in a puddle. He walked toward the chapel, and as he crossed the threshold, he heard the door close behind him.

“You are late.”

Judith stood at the altar, her hands clasped before her, her gown the color of dried blood. Behind her, the great golden reliquary of Charlemagne gleamed in the candlelight, and beyond that, in the shadows, Drogo saw the shapes of men. Armed men. The doors of the chapel were barred.

“I came as soon as I could,” Drogo said. “The roads were bad.”

“The roads are always bad in war.” Judith stepped forward. “You have something that belongs to me.”

“I have many things that belong to many people. You will have to be more specific.”

“The seal.”

Drogo smiled. It was the same languid smile he had worn for years, the mask that had kept him alive through three rebellions and a dozen betrayals. But it felt different now. Thinner. Like a skin he was ready to shed.

“I told you,” he said. “I have already used it.”

“And I told you that would cost you your life.”

“Then take it.” Drogo spread his arms. “I am here. I am unarmed. You have a dozen men in the shadows. What are you waiting for?”

Judith’s eyes narrowed. She was sharp, this one. Sharper than Lothar, sharper than Pepin, sharper than any of them. She had seen through him when no one else had. She deserved a better answer than a riddle.

“You are waiting,” Drogo said, “because you do not know what I have done with it.”

“I know you wrote letters in the emperor’s name.”

“I wrote many letters. To Lothar. To Pepin. To the regency council. To bishops and counts and abbots from here to Rome.” He took a step closer. “Do you know what they said?”

“Tell me.”

“They said the emperor is dying.” The words fell from his lips like stones. “They said the empire is broken. They said the time has come for strong men to choose sides.”

Judith’s face did not change. “And which side did you choose?”

“I chose my father.”

The silence that followed was so complete that Drogo could hear the rain on the roof, the crackle of candles, the distant thunder rolling across the Rhine. Judith studied him, and for the first time, he saw something other than coldness in her eyes. Something almost like curiosity.

“Explain.”

“My father is dying,” Drogo said. “He will not see another spring. When he is gone, his sons will tear the empire apart. Lothar will claim the throne. Pepin will march north. Louis will march south. And in the end, there will be nothing left but ash and corpses and a crown no one can wear.”

“And you think you can prevent this?”

“No.” Drogo shook his head. “I cannot prevent it. But I can shape it.”

He reached beneath his tunic and drew out the seal. It glinted in the candlelight, gold and heavy, the image of Saint Peter carved into its face. Judith’s breath caught.

“The letters I wrote,” Drogo said, “told each of my brothers what they wanted to hear. Lothar believes Pepin is marching to support him. Pepin believes Lothar has already claimed the throne and will betray him. The regency council believes both are preparing to invade, and that they must choose a side before it is too late.”

“You have set them against each other.”

“I have set them in motion.” Drogo held out the seal. “And now I am giving you the means to stop them.”

Judith stared at the seal. She did not take it. “Why?”

“Because my father asked me a question.” Drogo’s voice was quiet now, stripped of its languor. “He dreamed of stones thrown into a river. He asked me which one I was. I did not answer him then. I did not know how.”

“And now?”

“I am the hand that throws the stones.” He pressed the seal into her palm. “Not the stone itself. Not the river. The hand. The one who chooses where they fall.”

Judith looked down at the seal. Her fingers closed around it slowly, as if she were afraid it might burn her. When she looked up again, her eyes were bright.

“You are giving me your only weapon.”

“No.” Drogo smiled. “I am giving you a choice. You can use this seal to summon the regency council. You can use it to call Lothar to Aachen. You can use it to proclaim your son Charles as heir, and you can try to hold the empire together by force.”

“Or?”

“Or you can let me finish what I started.”

Judith was silent for a long moment. The rain fell. The candles guttered. Somewhere beyond the chapel walls, Drogo heard the sound of hoofbeats—many hoofbeats, splashing through the mud, approaching the city.

“That will be Lothar,” he said. “He received my letter three days ago. He believes I am ready to surrender the city to him.”

“And are you?”

“No.” Drogo shook his head. “I am ready to surrender myself.”

Judith’s eyes widened. “You mean to let him take you.”

“I mean to let him think he has won.” Drogo turned toward the chapel doors. “When Lothar arrives, he will find me waiting. He will believe I have betrayed our father. He will believe the city is his. And then, when he is comfortable, when he is certain of his victory, I will show him the truth.”

“What truth?”

Drogo looked back at her over his shoulder. The candlelight caught his face, and for a moment, he looked older than his twenty years—older than the fool he had pretended to be, older than the prince he had never quite become.

“That the game was never his to play,” he said. “And that the only throne worth having is the one no one else can see.”

He pushed open the chapel doors and stepped out into the rain. Behind him, he heard Judith call his name, but he did not turn. The hoofbeats were louder now, and beyond the city walls, lightning split the sky.

Lothar was coming.

And Drogo was ready.