The twelve pale hunters did not lead with ropes or commands. They moved through the green-lit understory like a pod of white dolphins guiding a disabled boat into a calm cove.
Elder Xiu walked three paces ahead of Qiao Ming, his hornbeam staff tapping the mossy root-highway with rhythmic, musical care: tock... Tock... Tock. Every tap sent a soft squeezing wave traveling through the stone-hard timber, reporting the thickness of the wood ahead, the presence of low-hanging fronds, and the depth of the damp silt pools bordering the path. The elder walked with a strange, lilting gait, swinging his narrow hips in synchrony with his staff, his webbed feet splaying across the bark to distribute his weight over the spongy growth.
Behind him, the eleven attendants glided through the shadows on either flank. Their slender, webbed feet made no sound against the yielding peat. They moved with fluid, nonstop grace, their hairless alabaster skin catching the emerald light of the canopy like wet marble freshly drawn from the sea. Although they possessed no eyes, their movements were flawlessly coordinated. Whenever a hanging vine-tendril obstructed the path, a slender hand would reach out and brush it aside a split second before Qiao Ming’s shoulders reached the obstacle.
