Epilogue: Guests of the Tsar

During the Reign of Tsar Alexander III, the House of Fabergé—the royal jewellers of the Romanov family—presented to the Tsarina a magnificent golden egg that, when opened, revealed a bejewelled chick. Each year since, around the Feast of Rebirth, the Tsars would receive a new, jewel-encrusted egg, each one more precious than the last. 

The eggs varied in scope and design, metals and jewels, materials and theme. One, formed of solid gold and drawn by chariots, contained a small portrait of the royal family. Another, bloody red with rubies, housed a functioning timepiece. Another, a music box. As time went on the eggs became more elaborate. Some even served as automata. With the winding of a key, they might sprout a hidden hen, transform into a dancing noblewoman, the shell becoming a distended ball dress, and waltz across the surface of the throne room for the delight of the heirs. Other eggs, enchanted, might open to reveal a 'living' map of the European continent, with the Russian army advancing against the Alban Empire, driving them back into the shadows.

But those days of feasts, of children's laughter echoing through the palace, are long gone. The world within the walls of the Russian nobility is decidedly more gray.

One, claimed by tuberculosis.

One, taken by war.

One, poisoned.

One, drowned at sea.

One, succumbed to the cursed affliction that had plagued them since infancy.

Publicly, the House of Fabergé presented its last egg (a glass construct portraying the constellations) to the Tsar during the year of the Prince Alexi's passing. A sufferer of the 'Royal curse' of haemophilia, and having not inherited a glyph of his own, the prince died shortly after his twenty-fifth year. The Tsar and Tsarina, inconsolable, and with their armies and infrastructure decimated by Alban incursion, withdrew from the public eye, appointing loyal counsel to manage the affairs of a country largely in ruin. 

Unofficially, however, the House of Fabergé did create one more egg—and it was far more magnificent, far more important, than any piece that had come before. The artisans were not alone in this endeavour, though the craftsmen and women were sworn to secrecy (and some, others whisper, were disappeared). Magi, scientists, and those dubious few purported to work for the Black Library (if it existed at all) each had a hand in the fabrication of this most unusual invention.

It was massive egg of chrome and silver and glass, designed as the embodiment of winter. Its sapphire shell was frosted with ice and pearls. Silver cherubs ringed its circumference. All of this was to distract from the series of tubes and strange wires that ran from its underside beneath bowels of the long-unused Winter Palace. It was installed in the Amber Room, another great Russian treasure, a chamber lined wall to floor to ceiling with amber mosaics and statuary and sconces, so when the candles were lit, the whole of the room appeared to be on fire. Against all the red, the cool toned "Winter Phoenix's Egg" (as it was named) stood out all the more against the crumbling tiles.

Every Fabergé Egg was known to house a 'surprise', whether family portrait, music box, clock, or splendid jewel. Thus, it stood to reason that this Egg, most of all, might house something especially precious and desirable. Or, at the very least, truly important...

On that cold summer's day, three guests of the Tsar would discover the Romanov dynasty's final secret. 

"You...didn't really think this was all just about men in colorful underwear fighting each other, did you?"

The machine automata, a hunched over, metal mannequin of chugging exhaust pipes and whirring gears, led the woman in the deep, purple coat across the mosaic floor. The rusted creature was clad in a soldier's uniform, albeit one torn and stained with engine grease. The automata, controlled in the manner of a puppet by its magus, crept dutifully along, leading the dark haired woman with the cold eyes. She regarded it with a mix of disgust and intrigue.

The woman was led to a mahogany chair with a red velvet cushion, one of three, arranged in a semi-circle around the strange machine. The Winter Phoenix stood, both at odds with the furnishing and simultaneously fitting, at the far back of the room. As the woman in furs entered its radius, she felt a change in both air and temperature. She looked first at the egg, which leaked a smoky, misty exhaust at its base, then at the automaton, and then at its master.

Positioned next to the unusual contraption, a decrepit old man sat in a mechanical wheelchair. His face was gray and sunken, hidden mostly by a withered beard that, nevertheless, could not hide the two tubes running into his nostrils, connected to the oxygen tank fitted into his customized chair of brass. He wore the coppery green uniform of a Russian general, complete with fringed epaulletes on his shoulders. His jacket dripped with decorations, ribbons, and achievements. All of these grand things—the chair and the decorations—only served to show how frail and shrunken the poor man was. He looked up at the woman, forcing his sunken jaw and dried lips to make words.

Despite his appearance, and though his voice did carry the expected rasp one might expect of a man on oxygen, the General's tone was strong and somewhat boastful. "Madame di Sangro," the general wheezed. "I would stand to take your hand, but you must excuse me...the jog I took this morning seems to have taken more of a toll than I thought. I am Bilibin, General, and servant to the dynasty."

Even the cold woman couldn't help but curl her lips in an amused smile. So, this old, gray fox still had his charms. She bowed, respectfully. "Just Recida is fine," she said. "On behalf of the Italian chapter of the Alchemists, I thank you for this honor." Her eyes again fell on the rusting, twitchy automata.

The general lifted his tremoring, wrinkled hand and pointed a crooked finger at the mechanical creation. "That will do, Tsarevich. Sleep." It stopped.

"Apologies for the parlor tricks," General Bilibin said. "You will excuse Tsarevich. He is getting up there in age."

Recida looked between the automaton and its master. So, the General was a Laurion Glyph user. A Metal magi.

"Our other two guests will not enjoy such an escort. It is their loss."

Recida could guess why. The man was almost beyond death's door...the threshold, more like it. She couldn't imagine he could channel his magick for extended periods to control his machine. Still, that bayonet and gun affixed to the things 'arms' was not just for show, surely. He was a bodyguard, and Recida suspected she knew for whom. He would not dare show his weakness to her.

The shuffle of bootsteps on marble and the creaking of the old door alerted Recida to more company. She assumed who the second chair would seat, but the third...

Well, she had suspicions. As a liaison to one of the most powerful secret societies in the world, she wasn't too often caught unawares. She wouldn't have come here if she had no idea who would be offering her deals. Yet, even for the Russians...this was a surprisingly cloak and dagger affair. Recida had never met the Tsar, but she had met most of the people around him at this point. A summons like this, so sudden, could mean only one of two things: either the Russians had miraculously stumbled upon a means to turn their ill fortunes around and gobble up some European countries for a kick, or they were in dire straits and needed the assistance of the Alchemists, a society they had been content to ignore for most of the last 200 years or so.

Or, quite possibly, the real answer lay somewhere between both possibilities. Still, the intelligence gathering of the Table of Ouroboros was rarely off the mark. There was a reason the Alchemists still ran most of Italy and Bohemia from the shadows... 

Recida placed a hand to the rim of the chair, and the other to the nape of her neck, where her serpentine necklace sat. There was a familiar aura present, but she couldn't place it. She watched the newcomer creep towards her from across the chamber.

The gaunt face and haunting eyes of the tall, gangly gentleman in the red suit were familiar to her. She put the face to a name straight away. Semyon Grigorivich was infamous. Among the Alchemists, he was a loose canon, albeit commendable in his own degrees...provided one kept him arm's length. They had crossed paths, most recently, at a gala for a brutish, magickal sport that the North American nations seemed to revere. Recida had only gone because of the surprisingly high profile magi in attendance. Otherwise, she would have chosen to spend a few more days luxuriating in the Riviera.  

Despite his grim countenance, Recida could see Semyon had been handsome once, and still belayed the charisma of a man rising above his station. He extended his hand to her. She allowed him to kiss it. Indeed, there was something electrifying about him. Beguiling. But she was no school girl. This was, as far as she was concerned, a business meeting.

"Recida di Sangro," the magi intoned in passable Italian pronunciation. "It is has been too long since a Russian palace has entertained an Alchemist."

She gave him a half smile. She wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. "Mr Grigorivich. I haven't seen you since that drab gala." She thought for a moment, and decided to poke. "Well, drab save the part where that chandelier fell on that poor woman."

Grigorivich's face was inscrutable. "Sadly, the most interesting portion of the night, though at the expense of the Spellbreaking Commission, of course." 

It was a joke in bad taste, which meant either he had no involvement in the matter...or he was very good at hiding it. Recida was intrigued, nonetheless. She smiled knowingly at her magi counterpart.

A magi. An alchemist. She sensed where this was going, an old aristocratic gathering some stuffy historians referred to as "Gray Triad," a popular methodology of pseudo-magickal espionage and scheming once favored by the Medicis both Italian and French.

Still, it was an odd ploy for the Romanovs. How the might had fallen. Catherine the Great had never turned down a bit of flirty espionage, but by and large she was one of the more benevolent rulers the nation, let alone the continent, had ever seen. The last two Tsars of recent memory were bumbling and ineffective. Worse, they lacked creativity. 

In sum, the Russian monarchy wasn't fond of elevating magi outside the royals, always in fear of usurpation. After all, the Romanov lineage was nearly unbroken over the last 500 years or so. Most other royal houses couldn't say the same, even the ones related to them. As far as Recida was aware, the Tsar and Tsarina had only employed the 'Mad Monk' Rasputin as a rare magickal advisor, and mostly at the behest of the late Tsarina for her late son's ailment. 

Come to think of it, Recida recognized, this Semyon Grigorivich reminded her strikingly of him. Of course, the Romanov's favored magus had been assassinated thrice over some decades priors (though rumors of his survival persisted). Perhaps the Tsar enjoyed employing a certain type. Maybe the man before her was indeed the selfsame monk, doing a terrible job of 'keeping a low profile'.

Then again, hiding in plain sight was always an option...

Before Recida could entertain that morbidly amusing thought any further, the door opened yet again. This time, the personage was flanked by two stern guardsman. And for good reason. This gentleman (she assumed them a man based on the gait and silhouette) was fiendishly tall. It was hard to gauge beneath the lavish, gold robe they wore, but they appeared of sturdy build as well. Their physical features were entirely obscured, their face an even greater mystery for the curious gold mask they wore, which resembled the head of an ancient canine, perhaps a jackal. Recida couldn't be sure they were even human at all! There were, among legends, rumors of a 'Black Triad' having preceded over the French Revolt, in which one of the three counsel was a demon...

The giant stood in the center of the room, at a safe distance. Their mouth was shadowed in the opening of their mask, but Recida thought she saw it curl into a satisfied smile. Behind her, the general coughed and impatiently dismissed the guards, who closed the great door behind them.

The giant spoke, in perfect Russian, with a slight accent that betrayed his true nationality. "Were you expecting the catering department?" 

Next to her, Semyon smirked. "Ah, graced by none other than the Jackal. That is who you are, yes?"

A jolt of familiarity hit Recida in the heart. She knew of the Jackal, a supposed double agent of the Albans with their hands in many clandestine affairs. Last she had heard, the mysterious magi was working at the behest of the Americans now. Or...had they turned? The Alchemists were good at tracking many spies, assassins, and dark agents. The Jackal, however, had eluded them. Whoever was behind the mask, they were very good.

That didn't satisfy Recida, however. It was no comfort to see someone repeatedly slip through her manicured fingers for so long. She looked dead into the eyes of the Jackal, or rather, where their eyes might be behind the holes of their strange mask.

No sooner had she done this, but a warm sensation bloomed at the nape of her neck, her serpentine pendent doing its work in protecting her. Had this Jackal tried to use magick on her?

She blinked, suddenly distracted. Time seemed to slow down and then, even stranger, speed up. She shook her head. No, she was being ridiculous. She had never encountered this stranger before. Surely, one would remember someone of such incomparable height, at the very least...

"Please," the General motioned to the lot, who sat. "I do apologise for the lack of refreshments. This is, sadly, no cocktail affair, though we will see to it that you are given a fine meal in one of the city's best establishments, courtesy of the crown." The general, who had to pause between sentences in order to breathe, folded his hands in his lap. "My hope is that this talk will be brief, to the point, and successful." 

"And you are to lead it?" Recida asked. Usually these backroom affairs provided tea or drink. She was not impressed. If he wanted 'to the point', she'd give it to him. "The Alchemists were of the understanding that there was an asset we might provide in exchange for access to the Black Library."

It was not the General who answered, but the brooding Grigorivich. "Yes, I understand those who tirelessly obsess over 'The Great Work' have yearned to access my division for some time." He would not look at her, but the smile across his gaunt face was clear.

Fortunately, Recida was used to being tested by men who thought themselves superior. "We Alchemists seek all great knowledge. The Library of Alexandria. The Archives of the First Emperor. The Akashic Records. A representative in the Black Library would be a boon." It was the truth, so why hide it? If he wanted a deal, he should know her stake in the matter.

He deigned to look at her. She must have said the right thing. "You must understand is not merely a collection, but a research and development division. We put what's recorded in those tomes into practice."

The gentleman in the gold mask regarded both of them with amusement. He said nothing, however. He merely watched.

This was going to be easier than she thought. Recida looked at Grigorivich, tried to take on a more polite and agreeable tone, and shrugged. "So, you want something of ours. We wants something of yours. I can think of no better arrangement." She looked over at the giant man in his ridiculous robes. "Where does this leave you? Or are you attending solely for the prospect of fine dining?"

"Oh, always," the Jackal sniffed. For a man of intimidating size, he carried a playful air that Recida, nevertheless, found deeply irritating. "But...I would instead ask a different question, And that is, who was the one to invite us?"

As far as Recida was aware, it was Bilibin himself, acting on the auspices of the beleaguered Tsar. She hadn't doubted this up until now. "General?" She didn't like the smug look on Grigorivich's face. He knew something about this meeting that she and the Jackal did not.

"Oh, Madame," Jackal began, with more condescending than the Alchemist would usually tolerate, "my decorated friend is a man of many means, yes. But I believe you will find him a liaison." He nodded slowly to the General in the wheelchair. "Isn't that right?"

The ailing man's breathing apparatus whirred and wheezed. "Very good," he said, roughly. "While I did arrange and elect to facilitate this meeting, I was not the one who called for it." His smile was crooked and strange.

Bilibin maneuvered his chair to face them better, though not without some struggle. He spoke casually, matter-of-fact. "Before we begin...and this is less directed at you, Semyon...you must understand that secrecy here is paramount. I am old, so I have no use for innuendo. If what is discussed within these walls leaks out into the wider world, you will be killed. Your families will be killed. And, seeing as you are all trained in the way of secrets, you might assume yourselves immune to our means of discovery." The expression on his face was gentle and warm, which coated his words in an even more sinister venom. "Trust us. We will know."

Jackal and Recida looked to each other. A silent agreement.

A small, metallic groan came from the direction of the bejewelled egg in front of them. Recida had taken it for a tacky climate control system, or an artefact from the dynasty's early days of automata development. But her eyes kept falling upon the device, and a tinge at her neckline told her there was a magickal element to it. Beyond that, there was a sudden and notable drop in temperature

The General wheeled his chair a foot or two away from the treasure, and extended his gloved hand thusly. "I present to you the Empress Alexandra Feodorovna."

Recida's face was unmoving. Inwardly, however, she restrained her utter confusion. But the Tsarina has been dead for years. What is this? And for that matter, where on Earth was the Tsarina? Had the General lost his mind? Was Russia being ruled by the mad?

The cold, vapor exhaust at the base of the egg creeped upwards like living smoke. Icy crystals materialized out of the air, their fractals dividing, interlinking themselves in a matrix of frozen solids. To Recida, it was like watching a human body grown in rapid time. The cold mist served as the blood and base of the shape, then a crystalline nervous system, and finally the 'shell', skin and physical features. It was a living ice sculpture, mostly bereft of anatomical detail, save for the hands, feet, and face.

And wings. The creature before them, approximately the height and silhouette of a tall and strikingly beautiful woman, was an angel of ice. Though its eyes were without the iris, pupil, and other tell-tale features of humanity, they suggested a weariness, or a cold judgment. 

Perhaps it was a telling sign that none of the three 'Gray Triad' did so much as blink or remark on the enchanted spectacle before them. They had, if anything, witnessed stranger acts of magick. Recida already assembled an explanation for herself. This ice construct was a facsimile, an avatar, a puppet, of a Cryos (or ice) Magi. It wasn't dissimilar to the good General's mechanical servant.

Now, where was the puppeteer? 

A quiet, yet strong voice came from a hidden speaker somewhere within the machinations of the Winter Phoenix. It was distant and tinny, as if coming from the bottom of a well, but it was clear enough.

"A blessed evening to you three," the feminine voice said. "I am quite sure you are wondering what is happening here, and for that I do not blame you. Extraordinary times, being what they are, call for extraordinary measures."

Jackal smirked. "Every Egg was said to contain a secret for the delight of the royals. Seems this time, the secret is a royal."

Recida tilted her head to the side. She recognized she should be addressing the ice conjuration, but couldn't help but find the whole drama unnecessary and maudlin (though typical for the aristocracies of Europe that once claimed sole dominion over magick). "My apologies, your grace, but I was under the impression we would be audience to the Tsar as well." And not to his wife, who, not only should be presently accounted for in the royal mausoleum, but had more interest in praying and hand-wringing over her children's scraped knees than in ruling, last I recall...

"No apologies needed, Alchemist. If anything, it is I who must seek forgiveness from you." For a woman of noble means, there was a polite, borderline pathetic tone, a neck-break switch from austere to shy. "The Tsar is with his maker, the Mother, may She keep him close. He...is with the rest of my children." The sorrow in her voice was genuine, an uncanny contrast to the ice angel's unmoving face. "I am the last of this great Empire. And you can see, I have seen better days indeed. I would not have you look upon my face. There is...not much left of it, truth be told."

Without making it obvious, Recida looked between her two forced companions. Grigorivich's face was smug and elated. He knew the score already. Jackal? This was a revelation as well, but his smirk suggested fascination, not the expression of someone who had just been deceived.

It was not in the nature of the Alchemists to show their hand, however, and so Recida played cool. "Forgive me, your grace, but that would mean--"

"The world is not aware that the last Emperor of Russia, my beloved Nicholas, no longer rules them," the Empress said, sure and swift. The angel raised its head, a gesture Recida took for intimidation. "Nor will they..."

At last, Recida could relate to Jackal finding humor in the situation. Indeed, it was an absolute farce, a global scandal, and a (frankly) ridiculous conspiracy. What did it say of Russia that they would not accept the wife of their last Tsar as ruler, so that she—the awkward, capricious, entitled, and unliked granddaughter of the last Alban Queen—would feel it necessary to masquerade as her husband, from the shadows? 

This was nothing to say of her current situation. Recida understood the meaning of the Winter Phoenix now. It was a cryogenic preservation unit, a prototype. In fact, it had been dreamed up by one of the Alchemists. But they had never quite managed to get it off ground. To the Black Library's credit, they had succeeded in building a working unit. Likewise, it wouldn't have worked without the Empress' glyph. Her magick, her dominion over the ice element, in tandem with whatever dark sciences had laid this most unusual of eggs, was what was probably keeping her alive.

That, Recida suspected, and pure spite. She was well versed in both politics and history. Alexandra was a woman who had made no effort to appease her people, and had hid behind her husband's weak-willed attempts to curry favor with the masses. She was also said to have been frustratingly insecure and deeply religious to the point of zealotry (going so far as to put entirely too much faith in that Mad Monk of hers). Her mental acuity had diminished with each successive (and truly tragic) death of her children. This, coupled with the fact that her husband was apparently the one who had passed, not her, didn't bode well for her current state of being, either physical or mental.

Slowly, Recida was beginning to regret having taken on this assignment. She trusted the Oourboros counsel, of course, but this was pushing it. 

Still, she let the Empress speak. "I am, first and foremost, a woman of faith, a child of the Goddess. It gives me no joy to lie to the masses as such. It is an unfortunate necessity, circumstances being what they are. In truth, I never expected to rule by myself, nor for so long." The angel turned its head to address each of its audience members, but the movements were stiff and eerie. "But the Goddess is good, and She has her ways. I have been called to this position." 

"To enact judgment."

Recida arched her eyebrows. Ah, so she's as insane as a bitch gone rabid. This will either go very well, or very poorly. It had long ceased to surprise Recida that the world was ruled by either the insane or incompetent, and she suspected the Empress was a bit of both.

"Semyon, my dear companion and confidant, knows already of this rouse. As does the General, and I pray often for both of you dear ones, for staying by my side so long. When all others have abandoned me. These are indeed trying times. My health, too, has taken leave of me. That is why you see this façade of mine, another unfortunate necessity. This invention, of man and magi, was guided by the hand of the Goddess to sustain my life force. For I alone will be the one who raises Russia from the ashes. And, like the firebird of yore, we will emerge ever stronger and victorious."

At least the Albans weren't delusional, Recida thought grimly. It was only natural that many countries and kingdoms since their fall would vie to become the next super power, and the Alchemists had many "seeds" buried among the candidates should one nation rise to the occasion. At one point, it appeared the revolutionaries might actually overthrow the Russian monarchy and institute a more stable government, but Recida's former higher ups had implemented different strategies (the reason they were no longer in command of the society at present). 

The sad reality was that none of the supposed key players had emerged as a global super power to rival the Albans. The Texans were too small of a nation, despite their access to resources. China was divided (with one half sequestering themselves in an entirely separate dimension). The nations of the former Alban conglomerate were too busy reconstructing and stabilizing, even if some of them did show genuine promise. 

The Americans, as always, were too blinded by their own greed and lacking in magick to pull off any of the coups or powerplays the so called 'liberators of the free world' likely desired. Brazil changed its regimes faster than a rich housewife trying on new clothes. The East African Union were so adverse to incursions from the outside world (as they rightfully should be, Recida agreed) that their technological utopias, though admirable, were unlikely to seek dominion abroad. 

There were, of course, other nations that showed flickers of promise. Neo Australia had its cadre of dark mages, yes, but they had chosen the post-war path of isolationism. And the Japanese were neutered, perhaps unfairly so, by the Alliance.

But Russia? They had maintained a grip, but barely. Their people were starved. Morality was nil. Still, the royal family had somehow injected a religious nationalism into their armies, and appeased the fractious parliament with just the right amount of concessions. The Russians had made remarkably successful incursions into neighboring territories in wont of stronger leadership. Like or not, the Russians had magick on their side, perhaps the highest number of magi since the Albans. It was easy to see where they stood, but their ambitions up until now had been murky.

Recida suspected she was about to be told the extent of them. 

"The Alban Empire lies in ruins," the Empress said. "It was as ordained by the Mother. Russia will build something better upon its ashes. Already, our armies advance. Though the masses be generally ungrateful. They are like children, in need of a stern and knowing parent."

There were many puppets present here, but only one person was pulling the strings, Recida theorized. And seeing how Semyon's eye twinkled, how both the ice angel and the corpse-like general looked to him, Recida suspected it was not the Empress.

Now, Recida was bold, but she was not stupid. Thankfully, she let Jackal speak up before her.

"I'll get to the point, though this is all wonderfully dramatic of you, Tsarina." The giant man gestured broadly to the room. "But why do you need us weirdos?"

The ice angel cracked its neck towards him. The man didn't flinch. "Semyon can tell it to you plainly."

The proud general, who looked to be at death's door, cleared this throat. "Yes, thank you, your grace. Are you two aware of the raising of Kitezh, some months ago?"

"Yes, the Atlantis of Russia is back." Jackal spoke as if everything was a joke to him. "A bountiful opportunity for tourism." He nodded to Semyon. "Or, as I suspect, a fine place to host one of your little sports spectacles with near-naked men."

The ice angel took a step forward, sending spider-webs of frost across the tiled floor in front of it. "Your presence is appreciated, Jackal, but your cheek is not," the Empress said from her metallic confines. "Kindly restrain your impulses."

Jackal relented, but his knowing grin remained plastered to his concealed face. "Yes, your grace, of course."

The angel glided backwards, wraith-like, its feet not touching the ground. It ceded the floor to the General. He, in turned, snapped his fingers. His mechanical servant, whirred to life, bolting upright and nearly scaring Recida off her chair. It retreated to some other corner of the room.

The rasping, wheezing general did his best to address his audience. "You are aware that the Albans, during the waning days of their way, sought all manner of legendary and magical artefact to help turn the tides, yes?"

"Indeed," Jackal answered, serious. "First hand, in fact. They came to me about some mummy in Egypt, a great magi purportedly housing the 'lost' Glyph of Chronos. Apparently, the Albans thought this long-dead gentleman might be awoken and persuaded to their side. Fortunately, I know it's best for the dead to stay dead." He turned his head slowly to face Semyon. "Wouldn't you agree, dear Grigorivich?"

The magi refused to look at him. He took up the reigns for the ill General. "...Be that as it may, their loss is our gain. The Black Library already housed tomes the Albans would have killed to get their hands over. It is, perhaps, a cruel twist of fate that they had the military might, but not the tools needed to properly guide their armies towards victory." 

The mechanical servant chugged back towards the seating area. It carried in its hands a velvet pillow, on which sat an attractive drinking goblet nearly as impressive as the Empress' preservation chamber. Four bronze angels comprised its base, with their wings nesting the ruby red goblet bowl. It looked ancient, rare, and instantly drew the eye. Recida could tell, by glance alone, that it was enchanted. 

Semyon acknowledge the automaton, who brought the goblet over to him. "We, however, possess the tools."

The General snorted, an undignified and self-congratulatory laugh. "Do you know what this is?" he asked his guests.

Jackal stared at him blankly. "An exceptionally rare margarita glass?"

"My Goddess," Recida groaned, sick of his unprofessionalism. He reminded her of someone she knew, but every time she had tried to place it, her memory clouded. In any case, what lay before her was far more important than these men taking subtle snipes at each other from across the room.

Her heart genuinely quickened in pace, but as always, she did not allow her inner feelings show. She looked towards the angel of ice. "Sorry, your grace. That is...a Divine Chalice, yes?"

The angel lowered its head in answer. "To be precise, the Chalice of the Gift of Protection."

But Semyon was the one to speak on the Empress' behalf. "Ah, so you recognize it! Well, you would, of course. You have its sibling in your possession." He folded his hands together, smugly.

"We do not, in fact." Recida's answer was quick and certain. She shrugged. "But we may know where it is."

Before the Alchemist and magi could butt heads, the Jackael deliberately, and performatively, cleared his throat. "For those of us playing at home, care to enlighten us as to what a Divine Chalice is?"

"My dear Jackal," Semyon began, "I thought you of all shadows would know."

"Perhaps. Perhaps I want to hear it from you."

The dubious magi was, of course, all too happy to explain. "There are seven. Each crafted from a strain of Aethrin's Tears, or Aetherium if you would rather forgo the poetics, which would explain their variance in color. For every Chalice there is the equivalent wellspring, scattered across the face of the globe. Only the holy water that pours forth from these boundless springs can empower the object." 

"The nexus theory," Recida added. "The grand nodes of magick." The literal fonts or sources of all magick...if you believe in that sort of New Age drivel. 

"Correct, Madame. As luck would have it, I plan to be hosting spellbreaking tournaments in the countries wherein these wellsprings lay. The location of the Divine Wellsprings is of public knowledge. They are ancient places, after all, and sacred to many of their locals. The Chalices we seek, however..." He trailed off, motioning to Jackal and Recida.

"That's why we've gathered you here today." He looked to Recida specifically. "An 'equivalent exchange', as you Alchemists are so won't of saying. Your Chalice for all the darkest depths of magickal knowledge. A fair deal, Recida?"

She remained impassive. Neutral.

Semyon was content to let her sit with the thought, appraising the masked interloper instead. "And, Lady knows what you want, Jackal, but then again you do always seem to conveniently appear at certain turns in history, don't you?"

Recida spoke before Jackal could answer. "The Alchemists appreciate this offer," she said, firmly. "We will consider and communicate in our usual channels." That was enough. Deals were never finalized on the spot, and she would be foolish to allow Semyon to extract any information for her. The Alchemists had their methods and reasons. Nobody else needed know what they were.

"If I may address the Empress," Recida said, shifting her body to the Winter Phoenix and its angelic sentry, "why the Seven Chalices? My understanding is that they were to be used in some millenarian ritual in Eden, for the purpose of sustaining magical kind." It was absurd to say it outload, but this is what the superstitious—including the ever-meddling Church of Aethrin—intrinsically believed.

"The Black Library intends a different use for them," the Empress said, choosing to take control of her audience again. "They are they keys that will grant us access to the gifts of the Goddess herself. You must understand that our world stands at the brink. Judgment day ekes ever closer."

"Sounds like you want to pick up where the Albans left off," Jackal stated, though his tone was not accusatory.

The Empress was patient. "Russia does not seek to subjugate humanity. Far from it. We seek to liberate them from vice, from decadence, from the failings of other leaders. We will create a new order, a foundation laid down by the powers of the Goddess herself."

Jackal left. "I rest my case. Very well. I'm bored, anyway, so this sort of thing is very fun to me. And what, may I ask, are we doing with these limited edition goblets?"

"The answer lay in Kitezh," Semyon explained. "All you must know...for now anyway...is that they will grant the Tsarina a tremendous magick. The likes of which has not been seen.

And if Recida weren't aware of the hidden records of the Alchemist, she might have gotten up and walked out without another word, leaving the insane to their games. But she was aware of at least three or four ancient weapons hidden, rightfully so, by their creators, conquerors, or the conquered. The history of magick was vast and strange, and a good lot of it was buried. For good reason.

She knew of Kitezh, the fabled city lost beneath the lake. The reality, if sources were to be believed, was far from fairy tale. A very powerful someone had tried to pull off something extraordinary there, once, and had damned the city in the process. She did not trust these schemers to get their hands on that power.

But she trusted the Alchemists. 

In any instance, Jackal appeared a willing participant. "Heh. Sounds like fun. Where do I sign up?"

"You would aid us, Jackal?" the Empress said, with some surprise. "So, what they say about you is true."

"What? That I have my reasons?"

"That you help raise great Empires."

"And make them fall." He smiled, a toothy grin both beautiful and fearsome. "If I may be serious, your grace, you are well founded in your aspirations...though it doesn't exactly make me happy to admit. The Albans were ambitious, but they were consumed by their own lofty superiority. A great empire leaves behind a great vacuum. If Russia does not fill it, someone else will." 

He spread his legs out, placing his hands, professorially, on his knees. Recida suddenly wondered his age. "Now, let's examine the facts, your grace. Your people are hungry. Your losses are many. By rights, your subjects are NOT pleased with you...

"I do not care for their adoration," the Empress fired back, tartly. "Rule is my birth right, whether they like or not."

"Woah, now that's a spicy egg! Now, your grace, I am not a religious man, but I recognize that you are. While I suspect you'll probably institute a total theocracy if given the chance, the reality is that you might just succeed where the Albans didn't in creating an actually powerful and homogenized Empire. Now, what happens after that? I'll figure it out when I get there. But if I were a betting man...and I often am...I'd hedge my chips with you Russians."

He leaned back in his chair, content, and shrugged. "So, I'm in. Forgive the cheek, it belays my power. You want these cups, right? I'll make sure to get my grubby little hands on them."

Recida glanced over at the Genearl. His eyes smiled. He was pleased as a child on their birthday. Semyon, likewise, relaxed his shoulders. He looked like a man that realized they still had the upper hand. She was more than happy to allow him to continue thinking just that.

The General folded his hands, satisfied. "So, we can count on all of you then?"

Recida, always deliberately slow to answer, lost her chance to speak. Instead, Jackal stood and bowed gracefully (and, Recida picked up, sarcastically) to the ice angel.

"We all want something from each other, we all have the means to grant it, and...as far as I can tell so far...no real reason to stab each other in the back. Yet. I'd say, as far as weird backroom deals with cryogenically sustained heirs to European royalty go, this one ain't half bad!"

Next Chapter!