Satisfied that Imp would stay put in the Peak like she’d been told, Impa made her way through the Crossing and into the ocean. Today was not the day she would find Jezibelle. Today Impa wanted only to make peace with her father’s memory, and the only way she felt she could do that was to go to the Forest. The swim did not take long, but perhaps it only seemed that way because the black mare was so deeply entrenched in her thoughts that her body moved of its own accord. She had always known the way home, and by the time she touched the shores of Luthien it seemed she had simply stepped from one island to the other.

It still smelled of autumn on the island, and she could still feel heat from the sunlight that fell on her back. Impa’s winter coat had already grown in, and she felt heavy and waterlogged as she strode away from the beach and into the trees of her childhood. They did not look much different from when she had been a filly. The half-blind mare was looking for a specific grove that she and her father used to spend mornings in together when a whinny split the air. Impa paused, ears twisting atop her broad head. There were horses here. Of course there were horses here. One scent was familiar, and she flared her nostrils to take it in more fully.

Her brother was here, not on Tinuvel. Had Jezibelle lied to her in the Peak?

Impa rushed forward, trotting through the trees without slowing until she came upon a mare hunkered under the shade of a tree. The black mare came to a stop and drew her head back, tilted as always slightly to the left, while her ears pointed at the stranger. She was shorter than Impa and did not carry the lines or feathering of a draft horse, but in all other respects resembled Kisei’s firstborn: she was black and her hindquarters were splashed with white and stippled with black spots. Other than the difference in height and girth, and the leaves that stuck in the smaller mare’s mane and tail, the two could be twins.

A quick surveil of the surrounding area proved that they were alone. “Where is my brother?” she demanded, and then cursed inwardly for not having a name to call him by. On top of that, despite her inner grief and intent to be alone so that she could meditate and find peace, she was being rude. “I’m sorry,” she said in a milder tone. “My name is Impa. Does my brother live here still? He’s a buckskin and has a blanket like you and I do.”