Evah stole vellum from the magistrates office, and then she wrote her stories on it. She could do this because she cleaned for them every day.
The only stories she knew were the legends the priests and bards and her elders told her - of dragons from the far east, of the wisps in the moors, of marauding bands of Half-men from the Spikes of God, of gods and goddesses both cruel and good. Only they weren't stories - they were truth, and these truths lay like a heavy weight on Evah's mind whenever she heard them.
Her stories were different. In her stories, there were no Gods, or sometimes there were, but they were not real. In one story her hero went to the Olympian Hills, only to find nothing but empty ruins and a crazed woman behind a veil who was as human as Evah was. In her stories, no monsters terrorized the hamlets and villages not protected by the Order of Paladins. The ghosts of their ancestors did not demand regular tributes of wine and grain, but instead rested peacefully in their graves. The people were free. Free to build their cities and make love and even imagine a different way of government that was not based on the mandates of priests, warlocks and warrior-kings.
The irony of her being found to harbour magical abilities was not lost to her when they sent her on her way to the lonely mountain monastery of the tyrannical Lady in Silver. The further irony of knowing that if she made her escape, it would merely turn her into yet another truthful legend made her resigned.
She still had her stories, though, and that gave her a temporary escape, at least.