En Shevil sighed as she entered the parlor. “I desperately need something to take my mind off things.”
“How was the Rite of Courage?” asked Rawn, and immediately realized it was the wrong question.
“Have you ever heard of a woman called Katrina — a powerful mage?” En Shevil pulled herself into the chair across from the other girl and leaned her head back, eyes closed.
“Katrina,” said Rawn, sucking breath through her teeth. “If it is the same Katrina, she was the Dark Master for over a century. No one quite knows what became of her, other than that she is dead now.”
Rawn went pale, if it were possible for her skin to achieve a lighter tone. “You do not mean… the Prince…”
“He brought her back to life. She’s on some island out there, and he’s gone to visit her. As far as I can tell, he’s…” She drew a breath and let it out again. “He’s got some pretty strong feelings for her.”
“I am sorry.”
En Shevil pushed herself out of the chair. “I’m going away. Elsewhere, anywhere besides this horrible world.”
“Very well. I shall see you upon your return.”
“Maybe I won’t come back this time.”
Rawn half smiled. “Good luck.”
The Shapierian did not return the expression, only willed herself to the high room and stepped heavily into the portal.
Before she was even fully materialized, hands seized her arms, gauntleted hands that took no care to be gentle. Voices swore — in… Latin? — at her sudden, obviously magical appearance, and she found herself in the clutches of two men. Their Hesparian armor bore the device of a broken mouth, which made her think uncomfortably of the scar she’d worn for so long on her own face. The men had a ragged look that made her guess these were not quite the strike-and-fade mercenaries of her world, however great the resemblance.
The soldiers ceased their exclamations and tightened their grips, sword tips driving into her back and side. They seemed to be waiting for something, so she took the opportunity to look around. They stood in a charred circle of blackened earth in what looked to be a garden. Clearly untended for weeks, if not longer, it ran rank where it had not been demolished.
It looked indolent, the destruction: flowers trampled, decorative trees hacked to bits by sharp blades, scraps of food and other trash scattered about the ground; it would appear that these broken-mouth soldiers had made this former bower their free-time haunt. It did not seem to have lessened their vigilance, however, though they were yet motionless with her as if indecisive.
Finally one of them spoke, a few questioning words she did not understand. The other apparently agreed, and they began marching her over the bridge from the garden into the Nob Hill area. It looked the same as it had in her world, save the wildlife: again, the boots and weapons of obviously very bored soldiers had taken their toll on trees, grass, and shrubberies. It seemed these invaders had occupied the city for some time.
When they reached the Hall of Kings, its well-kept lawn and stately trees looking strikingly beautiful in contrast to the rest of the area, she saw that the guards there wore the same armor as her captors. One of the former hailed the latter, but stopped speaking abruptly upon seeing her face. She could not see his, due to the helmet he wore, but the slight shaking of his head was enough to show his amazement. After a moment he started again with a long, quick string of words — questions, as far as En Shevil could tell. After much discussion, all four men staring at her intently all the while, the guards opened the gate and she was prodded to indicate that she should walk again.
Inside the Hall of Kings they encountered more guards, and the same sort of conversation took place among them there. The same astonishment accompanied all their words and gestures. She could only make guesses as to what they found so amazing about her. The great hall itself was empty, and she was led through a side door into a hallway. They passed many more doors, large and enameled, some of which stood open to reveal rich, empty rooms. Finally they reached another guarded door where they were greeted in the first words she’d heard yet in the merchant tongue: “Who seeks the presence — ” He broke off, staring at her, and swore. Then he jerked his head, stepped aside, and allowed them to pass.
The guards did not seem so sure of themselves now, and hesitated a moment before opening the door. Once inside, they released their grips on her arms and pushed her forward, taking a stance in front of the door as if ready to bolt. Looking around, she rubbed the throbbing spots where their hands had been. A woman standing by the window spoke: “Who approaches the Empress unannounced?”
En Shevil heard and understood, knowing now why those around her had been so shocked at her appearance. The voice was her own.
As this ‘Empress’ turned, En Shevil stared at her. Her hair, looking a great deal longer and paler than En Shevil remembered her own hair ever having been, was pulled up into a number of large, swinging loops. She wore a loose robe that touched the floor, sleeves half-covering her hands, of cerulean deepening to black by the time it reached the hem. It was embroidered with large swirls of silver, and being so beautiful looked out of place: as the Empress faced her, En Shevil could see that under the open robe she was clad completely in stark black, tight and functional, with the device of the broken mouth blood-red bright on her breast.
The Empress stared, scarred lips slightly parted. There was a glowing hardness in her eyes that En Shevil hazily recognized from the few times she’d caught a glimpse of herself in still water during her time as Deathscar. It was clear that whatever had happened in this world to bring this Empress to where she was, she was still most certainly insane.
“Leave us,” the Empress commanded harshly. “Do not enter this room again, and suffer no one else to do so.” The guards seemed all too happy to comply, and soon En Shevil was alone with herself. “Who in Tartarus are you?”
“I am…” She faltered, but the look in the Empress’ eye was not one to cross; she felt compelled to answer. “I am what you might have been, I guess.”
“Whence come you?”
“A different world, the same as this one.”
“So you have lived the same life as we?”
“Obviously not quite.” En Shevil wondered at the Empress picking up on this after such a taciturn answer to her question; En Shevil would not have. Or was her counterpart in this world smarter than she was?
“What happened to you?” The Empress’ eyes were narrowed to slits, and she glanced back and forth with no apparent cause.
“We will tolerate no rudeness from you. Do you know who we are?”
“En Shevil, of Shapier?”
A force, obviously magical, struck En Shevil in the face and knocked her down. Eyes closed and head throbbing, she lay on the floor as the Empress said, “Never, never, never say that name again.”
The tone in her voice was frightening. “You’re crazy,” En Shevil gasped as she sat up. “Erasmus never healed you.”
“Erasmus!” laughed the Empress. “It was about the time we reached his castle we realized our magic powers, which was convenient for killing him.” She smirked. “And yes, we are crazy. But we keep it under fairly tight control. It comes and goes, and we deal with it accordingly.”
En Shevil shook her head in confusion, climbing to her feet. “What about… the Hero?”
The Empress lowered her brows as if she did not quite understand the question. “What about him?”
“Didn’t he try to save you?”
“We haven’t seen him since we left Shapier.” The Empress was wringing her hands as if nervous, though still staring intently at En Shevil.
“Did he defeat the demon king in Tarna?”
The Empress shrugged. “It’s likely. The king was never that bright.”
En Shevil’s eyes went wide. “Askgaella?”
The Empress threw back her head and shrieked with laughter. “That pathetic fool of a Chekghaera came out and tried for ‘Deathscar’ at first, and got killed so many times she was destroyed. So Taramolix Ingk came for ‘Deathscar,’ and now we are the Scar-Mouth Empress, ruler of the Conjoinèd Lands.”
“Which lands?” asked En Shevil softly.
“Silmaria. Tejato, Lokgard, Nova Roma, all the lands around without rulers. Soon we will cross the mountains into Mordavia and Spielburg. We only came to this part of the world to build ourselves an army.” The Empress laughed again. “But now we shall stall our plans in order to solidify the Conjoinèd Lands to our name. Your arrival showed perfect timing.” She gave a little hop as if with joy, then began pacing back and forth, swishing her robes.
“What do you mean?”
“What shall my new face be?” Magically she shifted through the shapes of a number of warrior woman — famous, legendary, and all beautiful and noble. “Perhaps this one.” She stopped with Elsa von Spielburg. “She squealed when I killed her.”
En Shevil was filled with nausea, disgust at this creature that was half herself, half fanatic demon — this monster she could easily have become. “Elsa is my friend.” She could not remove her eyes from the Empress, who had twisted Elsa’s mouth into a half-grin, nearly bestial as it revealed a mouthful of overly-sharp teeth.
“Poor thing,” she giggled. “This, then. Though you probably don’t know what Chollichihaua looked like.” And indeed, the new shape En Shevil did not recognize, though she saw now why Askgaella was so beautiful. “But, no, I would not stain my frame with such a visage.” She slipped back to the image of the Spielburg Heroine.
“Askgaella is my friend as well,” growled En Shevil, not even flinching at the word ‘friend.’
“Askgaella was a coward and a fool. So much for my opinion of you.” The Empress suddenly fell into a fit of laughter, crumpling up the end of her robe in her left hand and leaning heavily on a chair with her right. She laughed so long, tears running down her cheeks, that En Shevil, feeling she might never stop, thought it was safe to try for an escape. Standing straight, she began to back toward the door when finally the Empress ceased. “Hold still!” she howled, and threw a blast of magic at the other woman that knocked her over with a painful jolt through her body. En Shevil’s stinging eyes rapidly lost their sight, and all she knew was the feeling of the rich carpet under her, her lungs’ heavy panting, and the sound of the Empress’ angry growl — all this over a generous helping of pain, of course.
She was obviously not in that little jail cell down by the gates. This was her first, somewhat absurd thought before the pain started and kept her from thinking anything else for several moments. It was just a headache, really, but such a throbbing, skull-splitting sensation as she had never felt before. Gingerly she tried willing it away with magic, but cried out as daggers of pain stabbed out from whatever internal center housed her power, careening through her entire frame with burning speed. For a moment she lay, absolutely helpless from agony, before the new pain receded and the headache felt like a blessing in comparison. She sat up.
She was wearing the tight, harsh, black uniform of the Empress, complete with the blue robe and spiked boots. The taste of blood was on her lips, and, raising her hand, she found that she’d been cut across the mouth to duplicate the scar she’d once had there. She did not understand.
The room was fine, and the bed in which she sat was large and comfortable. Decorative pillars stood all around, and on several of them empty vases waited forlornly for flowers. Two ornamental counters flanked a sunken part of the floor, reached by a step, in which a bench ran along the wall under three windows to create a charming ‘sitting room’ area. The windows, heavily barred though they were, combined with the skylight to give the room a cheerful, daylit look. Overall it was a beautiful chamber made for someone of prestige — so what was she doing here dressed as her devilish alter-ego?
She did not know how many hours she sat there, propped against the back of the bed, head leaning and eyes closed. Her headache erased any idea she might have had of looking for a means of escape. Eventually, she slid down under the coverlet and slept more fully, though still not deeply enough. She awoke perhaps every twenty minutes during the night, and her dreams were filled with acts of violence committed upon her head; hunger was their secondary theme. So her night passed miserably, and when it was over she felt as if she had not slept at all. But she thought the pain had lessened somewhat.
As she soon discovered, she was wrong — it was only the new pains of hunger that took her mind off the headache. Her stomach cramped, and eventually the hunger faded to a dull gnaw to allow the other discomfort to return in full thunder. After hours of tiredly attempting to keep her body comfortable without jarring her head, she grew annoyed and decided to risk walking. She couldn’t stay on this bed forever anyway.
With each painful step she regretted rising, but finally made it over to the window. Outside was a pretty, well-kept courtyard filled with flowers, shrubberies, and little paths. Reaching her arm between the bars, she managed to unlatch and swing outward the shutters that contained the glass panels. The smell of flowers and a gentle breeze filled the room, and she hoped fresh air would help with her headache. She then began a slow circumnavigation of the chamber in order to find out exactly what it contained.
Past the sunken window area, against the back wall, was a marble statue carved out of an ornate arch of the same white material. It was surrounded on the floor by a semicircle of tiles, unlike the stiff, expensive-looking carpeting of the rest of the room. En Shevil stared at this for long moments, her mind slowly fighting its way through her pain to interpret what her thief’s instincts were trying to tell her. She finally realized what it was: the architecture of the room, not to mention the tiling, suggested rather a door than a statue. The scratch marks on the ceramic flooring also seemed to indicate the figure’s hasty adjustment; but it would be the work of three strong men to move this massive piece of art. She restrained herself from shaking her head and looked to the next wall.
A large changing screen stood behind the spacious Silmarian-style bed, hiding the back right corner from view from the door. Behind this was a dark spot with four square indentations in the carpet where a wardrobe perhaps had stood, and a full-length mirror mounted on the wall. Besides a few hangings that matched the carpet, tiles, and vases — and concealed only brick — the room was bare.
En Shevil sat down on the bench by the window after inspecting all this, and leaned her head back against the counter.
This extensive exploration of her area of confinement turned out, far from being helpful, rather to have been a bad idea — if only because it left her nothing to do over the next several days. At least, she thought it was several days that she dragged herself around the unwelcoming chamber in ever-increasing misery. Nothing stirred in the courtyard beyond the barred windows; the only noises in the palace were distant, irrelevant, and unintelligible; and, best of all, nobody came in to bring her either further torment or food. She had never gone so long without eating; she wondered how many weeks it took to starve to death. But she was certain that was not the empress’ intent, sure the food was withheld simply to weaken her for whatever that eventual purpose was.
She fell to contemplating the remarkable pain that flared up every time she attempted to use magic. Having nothing better to do, she explored it, tried to determine how it worked and if there might not be some way around it. This pursuit did not last long. That is, it did not take up much of her time, for the reckless abandon with which she was eventually overcome led her to attempt to break through the curse or whatever it was with magic — and in doing so she occasioned a rush of agony so severe it rendered her unconscious. After repeating this experience a few times and passing an indeterminate number of hours thus, she gave it up, and a seemingly endless period of idle, diluted contemplation followed.
She never lacked topics of reflection in any world, but here the overwhelming subject was pain. The pain that prevented her magic and the pain of starvation blended like sharp colors, and the result was a unique discomfort greater than the sum of its parts. And that was before the almost corporeal boredom added its weight.
Without too heavy a sense of self-deprecation she wondered to what extent, if any, her unrelated suffering equaled penance. It didn’t assist her victims… it wasn’t inflicted by anyone in a position to mete out punishment… she didn’t think it made her a better person… yet somehow, in some sense, it seemed… right.
She broke into a weak laugh, leaning her face against the counter and closing her eyes. Distracted with hunger, largely disconnected from the flow of time, cut off from all contact with anyone, contemplating the nature of suffering… she must soon grow as mad as her captor… as mad as she herself once had been. And perhaps that was the empress’ desire.
This thought, which at its inception had scarcely been serious, suddenly gripped her and sent an unexpected chill of horror through her. It still wasn’t a particularly realistic theory, but it led her to a fear that might be more plausible. Her original madness had been the result of rage and killing lust stirring up her dragon blood beyond what her humanity could handle… but didn’t it seem frighteningly possible that the same effect might be attained by another set of extreme circumstances? And what would be the result of returning to insanity in another world? Was there anything she could do about it, in any event?
She was in precisely the wrong situation to combat a feeling of helplessness (being, in fact, helpless), and she tried somewhat frantically to review her options while any presence of mind, however scant, remained to her.
Her immediate thought that she must kill herself brought images to mind, gut-twisting and hazy — glistening rocks at a misty waterfall’s foot, glistening blades against her body in a misery-shrouded room — and she shuddered. Even knowing the impermanence of the action in her present situation, she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to do it. The other problem she saw was that she might not be physically capable. She had no weapon, and she didn’t know if her current strength was enough to do herself sufficient harm. And a failed attempt, she feared, would put her in a much worse position than her present one.
Of course, sitting around trying to determine which objects in the room around her she might drop onto her head or throw herself against to the most lethal effect wasn’t much better.
Eventually she decided that she might as well try. Though she didn’t greatly fancy adding the pain and inconvenience of a non-deadly wound to her discomfort, the return to insanity (however plausible it was or wasn’t in this situation) was something she feared more than any physical suffering.
The means on which she eventually fixed was one of the urns. At this level of strength it seemed unlikely she could lift them, but if she could just shift one to a more precarious position atop its pillar and throw herself at the latter, she might bring the urn down with enough force to achieve her end. Or she might just give herself a bigger headache. She thought it was worth the risk.
Sliding the jar proved a greater trial even than she’d anticipated; actually, just the typical movements of standing for more than a few seconds and reaching above her head were almost more than she could handle, and she had to take a break between getting the urn to a spot where it might even topple on its own and the next stage of her plan. Eventually, though, she was poised (with as much poise as she could currently command) at the opposite end of the room working up the energy to run and plotting the optimal position of her body hitting the pillar. From there everything went as planned. Almost.
She’d died frequently enough now to be familiar with what it felt like, even when she was unconscious at the time. This didn’t mean she was specifically aware that it hadn’t happened, but it did ensure her lack of surprise on waking and finding herself in the bed in her by-now-too-familiar prison. It almost seemed like she’d never made the attempt at all, that she’d merely dreamed it: apart from all the urns having been removed, the room looked exactly as it had, and her physical state didn’t seem to have changed. She doubted that a blow to the head strong enough to knock her unconscious could possibly leave no other indication of its occurrence, and therefore concluded she must have been healed of whatever wound it had left. Which raised again the question of what in the world the Empress wanted with her.
At last she found out.
Sitting against the counter, staring out the window, thinking almost nothing as she had been since her suicide attempt (it felt like days), she barely had the energy to react when the Empress entered.
“I’m disappointed,” the latter said at once. “I thought you would be clever enough to come up with another way to try to kill yourself.”
En Shevil had no response other than to drag her body upright.
“Tie her hands,” the Empress commanded, and a pair of guards stepped forward to obey.
“Like that’s necessary,” En Shevil muttered, and was herself a bit surprised at her ability to articulate.
With a smile, “Oh, but it is,” replied the Empress. “You have to appear completely under my control.”
“Why don’t you just possess me?” wondered En Shevil with weary sardonicism as her hands were roughly, tightly bound behind her back.
“That wouldn’t work with the flag,” the Empress said vaguely.
En Shevil gave a shallow sigh as she was led from the room with no clear idea of what was going on. Through the ornate, echoing corridors of the Hall of Kings they led her, none too gently, to the main doors. Here they were joined — or, rather, the Empress was joined by what seemed to be an honor guard of some sort. That woman had shifted her form to that of Elsa von Spielburg again, and this time had even gone so far as to imitate Elsa’s style of dress. The number of threatening guards around En Shevil also increased, and there was a scramble for order, for formation even, before the main doors were flung open before them.
As she was marched out smartly into the sunlight — the first she’d felt directly on her skin in she didn’t know how long — she was a little surprised to see the open space beyond the Hall of Kings packed with people. Even the green lawn of that eminent building was teeming with observers. All the movement and color hurt En Shevil’s head to look at, and she was concentrating too much on steadying her weary, uneven steps to divine details; but if she’d had to guess, she would have said that citizens of half a dozen nations were assembled here to watch whatever the Empress had planned. Were they under duress? She couldn’t quite tell what variety of crowd control the Hesperian soldiers at the edges of the throng were there for.
The appearance of En Shevil and the Empress was met with an uproarious cry from the gathered watchers; the cacophony was so great as to defy interpretation, so En Shevil wasn’t sure whether it was joyful greeting or angry defiance — or perhaps just meaningless noise the guards insisted upon. At any rate, it increased as the little procession moved down the aisle that divided the teeming crowd and climbed some steps onto a high platform that had been built since En Shevil had last been outside the Hall of Kings.
For a moment she wondered vaguely how long it had been, how long she’d spent in that room, how long the Empress had been preparing for this. That frame of mind, however, was shattered when, with a sick sort of shock, she saw the arrangements on the platform and realized exactly what was intended here, why she was dressed as the Empress, and how the Empress disguised as Elsa was going to solidify the Conjoinèd Lands to her name. As the guards forced En Shevil to her knees before the block, the Empress began to speak.
Rather than the less effective insane woman, the demon must be largely in control at this point, for the words were lucid — inspiring, even. En Shevil wasn’t listening particularly closely, but this much was evident from what she did hear and the people’s reaction to it. That the Empress could so coolly decry her own evil and yet subtly promote the unity of the kingdoms she sought now to rule as Elsa was impressive even to the woman she was about to kill. Still, as the latter watched the grain of the wood immediately in front of her, she was reflecting that this plan, though clever, probably wouldn’t work particularly well; if the Empress planned to continue conquering lands, it didn’t much matter whose face she wore in so doing. But perhaps the demon and the madwoman didn’t see it that way.
It seemed bad form to allow the Empress carry this off without a hitch, but there was a certain hypnotic fascination to the scene: disguised as what she might have become, about to be executed by herself disguised as her best friend… she couldn’t rouse herself to protest or fight back. She was still exhausted and dull, and was certain that attempting to use magic would have the same results as before.
The Empress had a good sense of timing, at least: her speech only dragged on to the point where the masses started to shift restlessly below before she hefted, seemingly from nowhere, a massive axe with a blue-glowing blade. Turning toward En Shevil, who had looked up, the Empress couldn’t seem to resist a triumphant and somewhat crafty smile at her victim. En Shevil really had nothing to say or do in response except to decide that she might as well not make them force her any further; she lowered her own head and neck into place.
“And so!” the Empress concluded, raising the axe, “She shall pay for her crimes!”
As the great weapon fell, time seemed to slow. For one long, bewildering, horrifying moment, En Shevil somehow seemed to feel herself in two places at once: kneeling at the block, waiting to die; and swinging the axe downward with all the force in her body, beating her enemy out of existence. At once victim and executioner, traveler and Empress, yet the shock of pain and disorientation and subsequently fading reality came as a harsh surprise; she thought her body struggled momentarily just as the head was separated from it, but then her awareness ended.
Intermingled and protracted dreams of beheading and personal confusion followed, and when she eventually awoke it was gasping, clutching at her neck in consternation and disgust. That last vision haunted her still… her grip on the axe-haft, bringing the blade down to her own neck, killing herself with a stranger’s hands… In actuality, decapitation had been far less painful than a few other deaths she’d experienced, but the mental images associated with it had rendered it, overall, far worse.
No one was in the room; outside the clouds were the colors of dusk. She stood, chilled as the cold sweat on her body was touched by the lightly moving air through the windows. She shook her head to rid herself of the grogginess of sleep, and transported to the parlor looking for Rawn.
The mage was not there. En Shevil sent a magical call through the house, reflecting briefly on how pleasant it was to be able to use magic again without fear. She received no answer. Uncomfortably she stepped through the portal that led to the sitting room. She did not want to have to explore the entire castle searching for Rawn; it was a big place. Besides, Rawn would have answered her call, wouldn’t she? She made her way outside.
There was still no sign of Rawn, Erasmus, or Fenris. Through growing darkness she walked the high pathway to the transporter, and appeared at Nob Hill. The first thing she saw was a strange object floating in the air in front of her: it was like a red bubble with a thick outer skin, with a string tied to its lower end. As she reached out to touch it, it exploded with a bang, and a strip of paper that had been trapped within floated spinning to the ground. She bent and seized it. “Come to the healers’,” it said.
The healers?! En Shevil took off at a sprint across the plaza toward the stairs. This really wasn’t what she needed to calm her after her experience in the other world, but she attempted to put that behind her as she ran; her friends might very well need her assistance, even if only as moral support.
At first no one answered her knock, but eventually the door opened somewhat sluggishly and En Shevil found herself looking into a woman’s weary face. She didn’t know the name of either of the healers, but the Shapierian features of this person had always called up a vague fondness in En Shevil despite their never having spoken.
The woman greeted her with a sigh. “Come inside,” she said.
Obeying, En Shevil followed the healer into the building, through the main room, and at last into a small chamber evidently designed for the treatment of individual patients. There, it was with a distinct shock that En Shevil saw Erasmus lying still and unconscious on a bed with a coverlet drawn up to his neck beneath his long beard. Fenris sat on the bedside table, Rawn stood on the other side, and the other healer was bending over the wizard.
“What’s going on?” En Shevil gasped. “What happened?”
“He has been poisoned,” Rawn replied in that uncannily even tone of hers.
“Poisoned?!” echoed En Shevil in horror.
“It isn’t a poison,” contradicted the healer man. “It’s a drug.”
“I am still not certain I understand the distinction,” Rawn commented.
“It’s hard to explain,” said the healer, scratching his head. “Poisons are meant to hurt or kill, but that’s pretty simple and a lot of the time they’re natural. Drugs are more complicated. They’re designed by people, usually with a combination of natural elements and things they created themselves, and they can be meant to do all sorts of different things — sometimes good things, like fighting a specific illness; sometimes bad things, like permanent damage to someone’s brain so their way of thinking is entirely changed.”
I started writing Pride of her Parents in 1997, and have finally realized, two decades later, that it will never be finished. It’s a hilariously bad story that doesn’t really need to be finished, but since Quest for Glory introduced me to the concept of fanfiction, something that has become very important in my life, this story still holds a special place in my heart.
What there is of this chapter is just the first of several scenes I wrote ages ago; all I needed to do was connect them in order to finish the story. Having finally become aware that this is never going to happen, I’ve decided to post it all with notes in between to fill the gaps. That way, if anyone is amusing themselves by reading this nonsense, they can, at least, if brave, get all the way to the end.
As for this chapter, En Shevil learns all she can about the drug from Salim and Julanar. The next day, the Rite of Destiny is announced. En Shevil, thinking that the effects of the drug sound very much like those she herself suffered at the hands of the scientists in the world she visited where Gort was the King of Silmaria, goes to Science Island to question the scientists.
I don’t remember if I ever had any details of this encounter in mind; my Dragon Mage timeline simply says, En Shevil confronts the scientists to no avail. There was probably going to be more rather unnecessary emphasis on the fact that En Shevil is not the most intelligent person in the world.