The broken and maimed Redeemer dug in his pouch for a clean gold note. Eventually, he found a note unsullied by blood, and he thrust the money to the caravan driver between burned fingers.

  “Wave’s Lament,” he rasped. Fluid lingered in his lungs, mouth ever thick with the taste of that endless storm.

  The caravan driver compared the fresh gold note and the ragged man with flat, dark eyes.

  “Wave’s Lament!” Donovan repeated. Was this man thick?

  “If you think to beg for healing, know that the Goddess has departed for the northern lands on a mission of peace,” the driver warned.

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  For the first time in weeks, Donovan felt a smile tug at his lips. “Is that so?”

  “Aye.”

  The Redeemer shoved the gold note forward again.

  A thin veneer of conscience warred across the driver’s face, but it was a rout from the start.

  Snatching the gold note, the driver jerked a finger towards the back. “In back with the feed, not a whimper about the smell, and if you’re caught I’ll–”

  “I know how to handle checkpoints,” Donovan rasped, limping towards the reeking cart.

  His legs ached. His dreams swelled with storms until he woke screaming. His lungs produced a constant stream of brackish brown phlegm.

  Yet his mind burned with clarity and purpose.

  These pains would not matter soon.

  Nothing would matter soon.

  Purity in flame at last.