The birth of the second kaiser did not, of course, free the first from his responsibilities. Reinhard had inherited the title and holdings of the von Lohengramm family not long before his twentieth birthday; if his son followed the same trajectory, Reinhard’s reign would last nineteen more years.
The idea of turning forty lay beyond the horizons of Reinhard’s imagination. But becoming a father had been unimaginable to him, too, and yet now it was reality, so presumably he would turn forty one day, and then sixty. Incomparable genius and unmatched hero though Reinhard was, no man was ageless and immortal.
However, before he could think of tomorrow, Reinhard had business to attend to today. A plethora of public and private matters large and small awaited his attention.
Sending a new call for negotiations to the Iserlohn Republic and its Revolutionary Army. Freeing the political prisoners from Ragpur Prison, and investigating who was responsible for what had happened there. Rebuilding the Neue Land’s transport, communications, and supply networks, which had yet to fully recover from the unrest. Dealing with Adrian Rubinsky, last landesherr of Phezzan, now under arrest for crimes against the state. Formally reprimanding von Oberstein and Wittenfeld for sowing disharmony within the Imperial Navy. Addressing Wahlen’s defeat by the Iserlohn Revolutionary Army, while also recognizing his success in keeping the fleet from being utterly obliterated. Publicly announcing the name of his son through the Ministry of the Palace Interior. Writing to his wife and his sister. Choosing a new imperial residence, now that Stechpalme Schloß was gone. Recognizing the achievements of Kessler. And…was he forgetting anything? The position of kaiser was highly demanding. At least in the Lohengramm Dynasty.
That Annerose had been present at the birth of Prinz Alec and saved both mother and child from the bloodthirsty fanatics brought Reinhard joy enough to warm the depths of his heart. More than a thousand days after the death of Siegfried Kircheis, it seemed that the time lost between he and his sister had at last been restored. If he rowed further back up the river of time, his boat would arrive on shores of fifteen years in the past, in the days when spring light had showered down upon him like glittering fragments of crystal.
Reinhard had given the name of his beloved, redheaded friend to the child he had not yet seen himself. This was not an attempt at expiation but an expression of gratitude—and greater feelings beside. Kircheis had shared the warmest, brightest part of Reinhard’s life. Granting his name to the child who would one day lead the Lohengramm Dynasty was both right and natural.
All at once, Reinhard was gripped by doubt. As he was considering those past landscapes filled with music and light, he had realized something. Running a hand through his mane of golden hair, he sank into thought.
Kircheis had called him “Lord Reinhard.” When had that begun? Not at their first meeting. He had started adding the honorific after they entered elementary school, when they were speaking alone. At some point, it had become completely natural. Yet Reinhard had never once thought of himself as Kircheis’s “lord.” The idea simply had not occurred to him. Kircheis was a part of him, and when Kircheis had been alive, Reinhard had lived a life twice as great in both quantity and quality.
“What Reinhard von Lohengramm felt regarding Siegfried Kircheis was, ultimately, nothing more than an attempt to beautify his own life as reflected in a mirror.”
Such was the dismissive assessment of certain later historians. It can only be called their good fortune to have been born generations after Reinhard himself. Had the kaiser heard their comments, his rage would certainly have far outweighed his magnanimity.
✦ ✦ ✦
In the Silver Wing hotel, where the imperial commanders had been given lodgings, there was a parlor with a large polarized glass window that offered an almost unobstructed view of Heinessen Central Spaceport.
The room still echoed with the aftermath of celebrations of the prince’s birth, but on the whole the atmosphere had quietened. The admirals sitting with their coffee placed before them looked like birds of prey resting their wings—a flock of golden sea eagles whose wings had carried them farther than any of their kind had ever been before.
“It seems that Kessler has all but destroyed the Church of Terra’s underground organization on Phezzan.”
“He has, has he? This is turning out to be quite the year for weeding.”
“That slippery Rubinsky, too, has finally been caught in the law’s net. It looks like Prinz Alec will grow up under extremely favorable circumstances.”
“But it was our minister of military affairs who caught Rubinsky in that net, wasn’t it? What do you think of that, Wittenfeld?”
Sensing a hint of ridicule in Wahlen’s question, Wittenfeld recrossed his legs, his knee bumping the table and setting the coffee cups dancing. Fortunately, all of them were already empty.
“If a goblin catches a devil, what can a man do but hope they take each other down? I thought more of Rubinsky than that, to be honest. Inoperable brain tumor or no, what an anticlimax for him go straight to the funeral parlor!”
Wittenfeld’s position was rather insensitive, but it had a peculiar persuasiveness, and the others could not help a few rueful smiles.
Every one of the highest-ranking imperial officers was gathered in the room except for von Oberstein and Kessler: Mittermeier, Müller, Wittenfeld, Mecklinger, von Eisenach, and Wahlen. The group was less than half the size it had been immediately after Reinhard’s victory in the Lippstadt War. How numerous were their lost colleagues and their undying memories—and how precious! Deep down, they knew that the sea of stars they sailed was also a sea of blood. The thought brought a moment of solemnity, but also the realization that they felt no regrets whatsoever. Mecklinger, standing at the window gazing out at the streets below, turned when he heard the door open.
Admiral Karl Eduard Bayerlein, a subordinate of Mittermeier’s, rushed into the room and saluted the assembled officers. Lowering his voice, he made some kind of report to his superior officer. At first Bayerlein’s tension was transferred to Mittermeier, but the marshal made sure to dispel this before turning a sharp smile on his colleagues.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I have just received word that almost all of Iserlohn’s military forces have left the Iserlohn Corridor and are on course for Heinessen.”
Silent surprise rippled through the air, and several men in black and silver uniforms leapt from their chairs. One, however, who remained stock-still while peering at a game of 3-D chess, only nodded to himself before moving his knight.
“Checkmate,” he said.
His voice was low, meant only for his own ears, but it echoed in the silence around him. Each of his colleagues showed surprise in their own way as they stared at him. It was the first time any of them except Mittermeier had heard him speak.
The time was 1600 on May 18, year 3 of the New Imperial Calendar.