Evasion: Rewritten, #3

By Morgan Bauman

Four years spent hiding in dreams. Four years wasted as Ilonon tore itself to pieces. With the threat of execution hanging over her head and a body withered with starvation and disuse, Ray must escape to safety.

Her journey will lead her to answers and new questions. Failure can only mean death.

In the world of Rewritten, information is hoarded. Any false move or lapse of judgment could have dreadful ramifications. Each character has their own lies to tell and secrets to keep, and the struggle to cooperate despite drastic differences in their own perceptions of their world and situation sends every one of them into danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Qol Press
• Release date: Jul 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501455322

Book preview

Dedication

For all those who have run away

and been called cowards

for making the wiser choice.

***

Acknowledgments

I wrote the first draft of Evasion back in 2004. Since then, I’ve written it from start to finish five times. It is now almost entirely unrecognizeable, thankfully, and I am at last satisfied with the quality of the story.

KickStarter made this book possible. In Veracity, I listed my backers in reverse alphabetical order by first name. This time, I’ve opted to go in A to Z order, as I did in Fallacy. In the final book in the series, I’ll reverse these one last time. Not every backer wished to be credited, so I have not included the names of those who preferred anonymity.

Without the following people, this book could not have been printed. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

Alexis Latshaw,

Amee,

Amie,

Ashley Koenig,

Chloe Pritchett,

Danielle Lancellotti,

Egan Neuhengen,

Erin Lee,

Francesca Dorricott,

Iris Hartshorn,

Jack Vivace,

Jan and Mike Herson,

Jennalee Bauman,

Jenny D.,

Keith Hall,

Kimberly,

and Paul Haggerty.

I am grateful to Susan Lau, who put together the incredible cover for this book. She was also the cover artist for Veracity and one of the artists who worked with me on the interior art in Fallacy. I would also like to extend my heartfelt thanks to my friend, Rico, and my professional editor, Kelly. They were vital to the quality-checking of the final draft.

Evasion has perhaps been the most persnickety of the books in the Rewritten arc. One of the main characters was never meant to exist, a handful of other characters made it through four drafts only to be dropped in the fifth, and another major character was originally meant to be viewed in a much less villainous light. After all, everyone is the hero of their own tale. I hope that you agree that all the changes were ultimately for the better.

Thank you so much for your time and support. It means more to me than I can say.

- Morgan Bauman

[e-mail]

***

Introduction

Flight or fight—dodge the truth or face it head on. In the heat of the moment, who can truly say which demons are real and which are imagined? All the body knows is pursuit and terror. Even the beasties lurking in thoughts alone can draw blood.

When the truth smooths over and surfaces from beneath the churning waters of deceit, when realization breaks like the morning sun on still waters, the nightmare may seem less tangible—and yet the cold sweat and stench of fear remain. In the moments between sleeping and waking, between dreams and reality, nothing is certain.

Flight or fight. Racing to get home when your feet no longer know the way. Which memories are dreamy residue, and which are reality glittering in the morning light? Which faces look out at you from your reflection—the weary woman or the vicious child?

The lines between the reality and fantasy blur. In the haze, you have only time to react.

Which do you trust?

Good luck.

- Morgan Bauman

[e-mail]

***

Chapter One

You aren’t real, Ray tried to say, but her mouth remained frozen shut. Her chest—Laenyn’s chest—rose and fell softly, as though merely asleep. Ray stared into Wylwon’s eyes, but her words couldn’t break through. You aren’t real! Ray’s breathing remained even and unmarred, her face relaxed. The words stayed trapped in her head, where she couldn’t get out, couldn’t escape.

Several years had passed since Ilonon had taken hold of her. Each night would find her immobile on the floor of Laenyn’s house. She couldn’t look away from Wylwon’s face as the years stole any softness from her cheeks and stomach, leaving her skeletal and hard-edged. She couldn’t shut her ears against the howling in the streets, the keen sobbing in neighboring houses, the wretched decline Wylwon described over the course of months and years. A gnawing hunger and awful thirst made her dizzy, but Wylwon’s voice never failed to cut through the fog.

Laenyn, today Lady Octavia cut our rations again! Wylwon would say, though Ray never saw more than a few pieces of fruit around. Wylwon never ate any herself; she would instead dutifully break themselves into small pieces to slide into Ray’s mouth. The juice was sweet, the pulp bitter.

Lady Octavia has just made it illegal for Secondaries to eat yraipyo. But that’s the only food that grows in the moonlight, and she won’t let the Browns roll the clouds back long enough for our food to grow. We’ll starve!

They were starving already. The bittersweet fruit vanished, replaced by something not unlike a potato—uncooked and bland, it was dry as dirt in her mouth and harder to swallow. Some days later, Wylwon brought no food, only apologies, and green blood dripped from a cut on her face as bruises crawled up her arms.

No matter how much Ray ate after waking from that nightmare, she didn’t feel full.

Lady Octavia is ordering all Secondaries to work as her servants. They’re making me leave my work at Lake Anonwe!

Ray grieved for her. Only the lake had brought her any joy; her moments of discovery had seemed to sustain her despite hunger and loss. After being taken from her work, Wylwon’s gaze became glassier, and she had less and less to say.

It’s not that the work is impossible, Wylwon said. Her voice sounded distant, and her eyes focused on the darkness beyond them. You’ve been assigned worse tasks, I know. But the things they say—I don’t think they remember that we’re human. I don’t think they remember that we can understand them. She shook her head. Servants, they called us. The same work for those who were already ket-amen, but no new clothes, no access to the main hall, restricted well access. We’ve even been forbidden from going Below. She wrung her hands. They’ve cut off your rations entirely.

Ray could see Wylwon’s ribs through the tattered cloth of her robe. Hunger would surely take one of them soon; they couldn’t live on less. Despite this, Wylwon continued to feed her, sometimes chewing the food for her when they had no water to wash it down her throat. Weeks passed, then months.

Now even the Grays and Browns have been demoted to servants. What will we do? You can’t work, and—they’re making me do your share as well as my own until you get better. Why won’t you wake up?

This small resentment, which Ray felt she deserved more than the food Wylwon brought, came infrequently. Wylwon rarely blamed Laenyn—or Ray, by proxy—for their unfortunate circumstances. Mostly, she expressed concern. Deep and abiding concern, along with a love that Ray would never have expected. It left her cold and aching when she woke in the morning to think of Wylwon carefully stroking Laenyn’s hair, whispering comforting words to someone lost to the both of them. Ray’s throat—Laenyn’s throat—burned with tears she couldn’t shed as she stared through Wylwon’s caring expression, unable to focus her eyes or give Wylwon any sign of consciousness.

Wylwon brought home food less often and came home covered in bruises and cuts whenever she had no food. Though she never explained why, Ray suspected. She dared not concentrate on the idea; she found it hard enough to see Wylwon limp home, stoop beside her, and smile as she squeezed Laenyn’s hand, murmuring, I should have appreciated you more.

Then, one night, Wylwon shook as she said, She’s finally lost all sense. They’re as good as dead, Laenyn. Her voice broke. In the streets, Ray could hear the baying of wolves. Wylwon drew closer to her, getting between Ray and the front door. Octavia declared that all White women were traitors, she said, pressing her forehead against Ray’s. They’re to be put to death. Since they can see in the dark, I think some have already escaped, but they won’t all make it. A crackling sound began to spread in the distance; traces of smoke seeped into the house. Wylwon pulled back. The forest will burn. The little ones—I don’t see how they can outrun it.

Ray wanted to ask about Jauge, who had been White, but her tongue refused to respond.

Wylwon’s eyes glazed over. After a few shaky breaths, she prepared the dry, tasteless food and brought out a bowl of water.

I can’t do this tonight, Laenyn, Wylwon said, her voice dead. I see now why you hated your work. I’m so sorry that I pushed you. Is this my fault? Could you have saved us from this? I… I never understood what murder was. I see it now, and I’m… I can’t. Not tonight.

Calling over the man that Ray knew lived in the house—a man named Zry, about whom Ray knew very little—Wylwon stood and left. Zry fed Ray as she listened to Wylwon retching in the distance.

But even that couldn’t compare to the night in early summer when Wylwon finally lost hope.

At first, Wylwon did nothing but sit, stone-faced and ashen, staring at Ray’s face. Zry was out of Ray’s limited field of vision. Wylwon’s face contorted, and Ray knew that she didn’t want to hear what new tragedy had struck Ilonon. She wanted to wake up. She wanted to go home to Phoenix, where she felt safe—where she could almost forget the nauseating hunger and thirst, the awful, trapped sensation of her frozen limbs.

You aren’t real! Ray pleaded silently, lips unmoving, but Wylwon’s mouth opened, and Ray could not shut out the story that followed.

Lady Octavia ordered that, ‘All members of the Orange Family are to be exterminated for the crime of instigating minor revolts against the Greater Council.’ Wylwon’s voice shook, and suddenly her blank expression seemed to crumble. Then, without any warning at all, the Orange women were rounded up and murdered. It was over before we knew there was to be a proclamation.

Ray fought in vain to open her mouth.

They made us watch. Wylwon’s eyes were full of tears, full of a distant, screaming horror. My mentor was an Orange woman; she died years ago, but her daughter… I saw her die today. You know, I played with her a few times when I was just beginning my apprenticeship. Accen was a strong mother, but I knew she doted. Maryl grew into the sort of woman who made her proud.

Wylwon pressed her hands to her face. Through her shaking fingers, Ray saw her eyes—wide and dry. The bloodbath seemed burned into her vision.

We’re next, she said, voice dry with terror. I know it. She’s skipped the Pink; I can’t guess why, but she’s mad, anyway. I can’t see the sense in this. I can’t see the purity in this. This was wrong.

She did something then that Ray had seen her do only rarely. She tilted Ray’s head to face her own, cupping her cheek.

I can’t watch you die like that, she said, too serious and emphatic to keep her voice a whisper. I can’t watch you get ripped in half. I can’t. I can’t.

She leaned her head against Ray’s bony shoulder and sobbed, sounding sick and beyond tears. It was the high keen of horror come home; the abuses had all been at least one step removed from them before. There had always been someone beneath them.

No longer.

As day began to break over Ilonon, Wylwon still held Ray close, dozing, using her body as a shield against the night as she defended Ray—no, Laenyn. Wylwon had never gotten to know Ray.

Ray knew, as her eyes finally slipped closed, that no one in Laenyn’s world would defend her.

***

Chapter Two

Sunlight poured into Ray’s bedroom, brilliant and so bright it left halos around her vision. Ilonon’s darkness left no mark in her world; it felt like waking to a dream. A shaft of dusty sunlight shone through the glass door to her right. Pale curtains hung around her bed, blowing as though touched by a breeze. Years of exposure to the sun had bleached the room of all but the barest hints of color. She stood and felt lighter than a breeze. She left no trace on the faded yellow carpet, and the white dresser’s drawers seemed to open as she reached out to touch them.

Only the waking world left her free to move. Ray found herself dressed and left the sunny room. The hallway contracted around her, pressing her into the kitchen, where she stood beside her mother. She no longer found her mother’s colorless hair strange; time and sunshine wore everything away.

Platters of eggs and bacon filled the table; pancakes and waffles stood steaming hot on a tray before her placemat; cold milk and fresh fruit waited for her. Ray always woke up hungry.

Eat up, sweetie, her mother said, looking at her with her bland, sad smile as she moved about the kitchen. There’s always more if you run out.

Ray sat at the table.

Morning, Meg said.

Ray didn’t jump, though she hadn’t noticed Meg before sitting down. Meg appeared and disappeared at will, almost translucent in the warm sunshine.

Meg’s expression seemed distant, as though peering through a gap in the air—seeing something invisible to Ray.

Ray wondered dimly where Haven might be. Feeling lonely, she piled her plate with muffins, pancakes, eggs—everything that she could lay her hands on. She couldn’t tell what the others were eating, but she ate.

You must be having a growth spurt, honey, her mother’s voice said. You’re always eating so much.

Ray ate and ate, pretending that her feast tasted like more than the flavorless, potato-like food of Ilonon.

It’s because you’re such a good cook, Mom, she said, her voice unclouded despite her full mouth. The heat billowing from the oven and the tremendously bright sun seemed as though it should affect her more; then she remembered air conditioning and forgot the heat.

How are you? she asked Meg. She had a feeling that Meg had once been flighty and carefree, but she couldn’t guess how many months or years it had been since she’d seen her so much as smile. Awkwardness clung to Ray’s throat like gauze or a spider’s web, making it hard to breathe.

You know. Meg shrugged, not meeting Ray’s eyes. School.

School? Ray repeated, feeling suddenly misplaced. Looking down, she found a brown paper bag with lunch in her own hands, a backpack weighting her down.

Take care! her mother called, framed by the oddly bright doorway of their house.

They stood at a bus stop on a nondescript road made of black tar. The dazzling blue sky seemed mildly green when Ray looked away; feeling uncomfortable, she forgot the house and focused on the sky.

Moments later, the school bell rang. Ray started, then ran toward the school building. The playground sand was white and green and blue beneath her feet.

Another bell chimed, announcing the end of classes for the morning; Ray couldn’t remember what she’d been