The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

senses alert as he sought a dark corner for himself and his book. He knew he needed to hear the truth beneath the spoken words.
    The Senior Magician winced at the use of his true name. Since he had taken over, all of the masters had adopted working names and reserved true names for only the most solemn occasions.
    “The books must be separated by categories,” Scarface said, looking directly into Lyman’s eyes rather than at the books. The intensity of his gaze suggested he attempted to influence Lyman with magic.
    “They already are cataloged and categorized.” Lyman didn’t falter or succumb to the mental manipulation.
    “For the safety of the Commune and those who seek knowledge here, a further separation is required. The queen’s dragon dream foretells danger in the knowledge contained within these books.”
    The three satellite magicians moved to flank Scarface, becoming a solid wall of determination.
    “I have studied the matter. We can no longer delay in removing dangerous information from the reach of vulnerable apprentices.”
    “Dangerous as in . . . ?” Lyman remained firmly in place, blocking the other magicians.
    “All references to rogue magic must be placed where only master magicians can access them. All references to machines that mimic magic must be set aside for later culling,” Scarface announced. “None of my students have need of this forbidden knowledge.”
    “You are going to ban books?” Lyman asked. For the first time, Bessel watched the old man fumble for a retort that would misdirect or perplex. Lyman stood blinking, mouth agape. He radiated emotional pain.
    “We must remove dangerous books from the hands of vulnerable children and those who would misuse the forbidden knowledge secreted therein.”

Chapter 8
     
    The void between the planes of existence
     
    P ulsing energy jolted through Yaala, the only sensation available to her as numbing darkness enfolded her. She had no body, no perceptions, only thoughts and the rippling currents tingling her mind. Something akin to the ’tricity generated by her beloved machines beneath Hanassa. But different. Unnatural.
    (Your ’tricity is unnatural. We belong here,) a voice said inside Yaala’s head.
    Where am I? she asked. She wanted to speak but had no mouth to form the words. Only her mind existed. Her mind and the voice.
    She retained a brief memory of seeing the dragongate start to form and dashing forward to stand beside Powell. Then, before she could reach him, she fell into . . . nothing; nothing but the repeated jolts.
    Her thoughts spun, seeking order out of nothing.
    (You have found a place where you do not belong and cannot stay.)
    I have never belonged anywhere but with my machines. How do I return to them?
    (Is that what you truly wish?)
    I have no alternative.
    (There are always alternatives.)
    Then I make the choice to return to Hanassa. With Powwell. The image of underground caverns filled with giant generators and transformers formed slowly in her memory. Gradually, she completed the picture with all of the colors and sulfur smells she had lived with so long. Then she added the memory of Powwell following her about with tools and oil rags.
    (That is the one place I cannot send you. Dragons do not venture near the realm of the renegade.)
    Abruptly the voice disappeared. And Yaala was left alone in the nothingness, with only her mind and her memories. And the jolting energy.
    All energy followed definite currents. She remembered that much from her study of the machines. Even when ’tricity appeared to flare in random directions, it followed some kind of pattern, using the air as a conduit when no wires existed.
    Therefore this strange energy had a beginning and an end. She had but to follow it.
    She took a moment (if time still existed, which she doubted) to study the patterns of the energy. At first, they seemed random and directionless. Gradually, she tuned her mind to the frequency of the flow. At last, she found a rhythm. It pulsed in her mind almost like music. Haunting and compelling.
    (Follow me!) it seemed to say. (Follow me home.)
    Her mind blended with the pseudo ’tricity and joined the pulsing dance it created out of nothing. A kind of joy filled her. If she’d had a body, she would have laughed.
    Laughter. One of many things missing in her life. Yaassima had laughed, but only when cruelty lit her mind. Yaala had never found anything to laugh about in Hanassa, even as a small child. Fear had