The ash-house stood near the centre of Veyrhold.
At first, Rohan thought it was a temple.
It was broader than the surrounding buildings, built from dark stone fused with old metal panels whose edges had been hammered flat and bolted into place. The roof curved downward like a shell, with several chimneys rising from it at different heights. Thin smoke drifted from them, not grey like the ash outside, but white and clean. Over the entrance hung a circular sign made from black glass. Etched into it was the image of an open hand beneath falling ash.
The building smelled of heat, bitter herbs, and mineral dust.
Inside, the air changed.
Rohan noticed it immediately.
It was still dry, but less hostile. Less abrasive. The first breath he took did not scrape across his throat as badly as the outside air had. Warmth pressed against his face, carrying the scent of steam and heated stone.
