The mare’s voice is cold, unbreakable and implacable as ice. No, more than that— it was strong like the mountain Impa stood on, a voice to withstand the elements and the tests of time. Ice could be cracked, crushed, melted. It was much more difficult to destroy a mountain, and the pale mare spoke with such casual authority that for a moment Impa wondered if her home had taken on the form of a horse to speak with her. It was a thought she would have to entertain on another day, for when the Arabian spoke again it became apparent to Impa that she was jumping to conclusions as ridiculous as her sister. Jezibelle’s head was always full of pixies and fairy dust: as a politician, the black blanketed mare had no room for such fantasies.

“I am certain your camouflage will serve you every day,” Impa said with a crooked smile. Derry. Well, not quite what she was expecting, but certainly not disappointing, either. The name the mare next speaks rang familiar in Impa’s mind but it was also unplaceable. She spent a moment grappling with the thought at the edges of her mind, but her fumbling tattered it like old silkworm threads. The half-blind mare flicked her tail and tilted her head to the left. “I am only Impazienza, though the mares here call me Impa.” Her eyes flicked over the pale mare, noting the fineness of her coat coupled with her slender build. Spring was everywhere except here, and while Impa was comfortable at this height and cooler temperature, she could imagine how uncomfortable standing in snow would be for a horse more prepared for summer than winter.

The draft mare turned and strode forward to continue her descent down the mountain, pausing a few steps into her walk and craning her head back toward the white mare. “I’m tired of the cold,” she lied. Derry had not complained of the cold but Impa was willing to bet it bothered the petite mare at least a little. Ever the politician, the black mare let her own dignity buckle before her companion’s could in a calculated attempt to move them both toward the base of the mountain where the temperature would not be so frigid. “Winter was long and now that I see the top of the Peak is still hoarding snow, I’ve no desire to stand in it any longer. Walk with me,” she suggested. “I’d like to know where you’ve come from, and why you chose to climb nearly to the top of the Peak.” If Derry accepted her invitation, Impa would continue walking, but for now she stood with one front feathered hoof suspended over a patch of snow, waiting.