“You’re well versed in ancient Konic, my lord,” Dorin replied in surprise.

Alec laughed. “He’s a walking compendium of languages.”

“The advantage of a long life,” Seregil said, looking sidelong at the steward. The man made no response.

They crossed a mossy stone bridge over the same rushing river that flowed down from Menosi, and then came at last to their new holding up a small rise overlooking the distant harbor.

As much as Seregil had resisted the idea of the title, he was instantly taken with the place. The main house was built of local granite with a steeply pitched slate roof bristling with chimneys. It was a huge, rambling, two-story place built in a U shape facing a very large, almost perfectly round pond. A thick profusion of wild white roses crowded around one side of it, and cattails and rushes grew in the shallows.

“Is it the pond that gives the estate its name?” Alec asked.

“It is, my lord,” Dorin replied. “On a clear night the full moon looks big as a millstone on its surface. And the roses are white, rather than the usual pink, as you see. Quite rare on the island, and lovely in the moonlight.”

More ducks and several stately wild swans glided in pairs across the water, and as Seregil watched some sort of large fish jumped.

“That looked like a trout,” said Alec.

“It’s well stocked, my lord. Good fishing in that pond, and a tasty catch, if you care for fish. The cook is ’faie, and she does them up in meal, herbs, and butter.”

“Etrai son sela!” Seregil exclaimed. A flavor from home.

Dorin frowned slightly. “I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t understand you.”

Seregil laughed. “I beg your pardon. I was overcome by nostalgia. That’s how my sisters cooked the fish I brought home.”

Meadows stretched away behind the house, and the farm roads that ran through it were edged with wildflowers. Colorful patches of red starbrush grew in the ditches. There were small cottages and large barns up there, and large herds of horses grazing and gamboling across the gentle green slope.

“Did the former owner bring in those horses from Aurënen?” asked Micum.

“No, my lord. Those are island horses, bred from the time of the first settlers. There’s no finer on the island.”

“I’ve a mind to ride up there and see them. Seregil, do you mind?”

“Not at all. See if you can find the herd master.”

Micum nodded and galloped away up one of the farm roads.

“How old is the house?” asked Alec.

“Twelve centuries, my lord.”

Seregil nodded. “Some of the last Hierophants could have visited here.”

“Indeed they did, my lord. We had various articles given as guest gifts. Sadly, the previous owner carried them off.”

Inside the house its original style had been largely preserved; the stone-walled rooms were decorated with wooden vaulting and carvings of marvelous beasts. Some were recognizable as dragons, stags, rabbits, and the like, but others were strange and alien, like the ones they’d seen at the governor’s house. One had the body of a catamount, but with a woman’s head, its face twisted into a leer. Another was a horned serpent with a bull caught in its muscular coils. At the peak of the vaulted ceiling, frozen in time-blackened wood, three naked winged women were caught in midflight holding the long chains of gold and crystal hanging lamps. Sunlight streamed in through round windows with bull’s-eye-glass panes. Everything was polished and dusted to perfection. The air smelled of polishing oil, beeswax, and the sea.