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  Chapter XIV

  Waves of foothills defined Pence’s immediate horizon, each a colossus in its own right to the boy. In the gaps between the waves he saw a sea of forest growing uninterrupted to the faraway first knuckles of a range of soaring mountains. Resembling conjoined bony fingers, the megaliths’ wind-whittled tips had been visible from inside the garden; now outside, Pence could see this ring of spires encompassed the ends of the earth in every direction like a circle of open hands upholding the world in their gathered palms.

  The only road in sight disappeared around the hills and into the woods. There were no signposts, boot marks, or horse tracks, let alone princes.

  Cobwebbed cracks interrupted Pence’s pace every few steps. He slowed to consider his footwork. “If there’s a path that leads to the garden, why don’t more people find it?” he asked himself as he picked his footing with the care of a man cleaning between his teeth with a knife. “Now where is that pickle-brained Prince?”