Diana stopped abruptly and put a finger to her lips. Alia nodded understanding, then crept up behind her and peered over her shoulder through the leaves.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see. Maybe a fort or wannabe military encampment, a bunch of rednecks in camo. Instead, she was looking down at a wide road that led into a city cut from golden stone that seemed to glow in the fading light—a fairy-tale city of arches and spires, open porches bursting with cascades of flowers, their domed rooftops and silk awnings held aloft by elegant columns.
Something was happening. Women were hurrying back and forth along the road, a sense of urgency in their movements. Some wore leather trousers and banded tops similar to Diana’s, but others were draped in bright silks. They looked less like survivalists and more like a group of performers getting ready to take the stage.
Diana met Alia’s eyes and made a gesture.
“That some kind of military thing?” Alia whispered.
“Never mind,” said Diana on an annoyed breath. “Just follow me and stay quiet. Try to walk light. For such a little person, you make a lot of noise.”
“I am not little,” Alia protested. And, okay, she wasn’t exactly graceful, but it wasn’t like she’d run into a tree or something.
They continued through the forest, picking their way between the branches. Diana was sure-footed and never stopped to rest, but Alia felt worse with every step. She had no idea how long they’d been walking, but she’d lost her canvas tennis shoes in the wreck, and despite the mossy covering on the forest floor, her feet were protesting every root, bump, and pebble.
At last, Diana came to a halt. This time she got down on her belly and caterpillar-crawled beneath a tree covered in fat green leaves. Alia stood there for a moment. Was she really doing this? She heaved a shrug, then lay down on her stomach and followed. They emerged overlooking a high-walled citadel.
“The walls have cracked,” Diana said, her voice full of a kind of miserable awe. “They’ve stood for nearly three thousand years.”
Now Alia knew the girl was nuts. There was no way this building had been around for that long. It looked brand-new, despite the big crack in one of its sand-colored walls.
As they watched, Alia saw two more women in leather trousers and tops jog beneath an arch. When they reemerged, they had another woman with them. She had only one arm and it was tattooed with what looked like—
“Is that chain mail?”
Diana nodded. “Everilde disguised herself as a knight so that she could fight in the Crusades. The tattoo covers the whole of her torso.”
“Wow. It’s like she never has to leave Ren Faire. What’s written on her shoulder?”
Diana blinked, her inky-black lashes dappled with rain. “Peace. In Arabic. She had it done when Hafsah came to the island. Both of them work in the training rooms, but with the storm and the earthquakes, they probably need as much help as they can get at the Epheseum.” Diana groaned. “My mother is going to kill me.”
“Why?”
“I should be down there, helping. Taking a leadership role.”
Alia almost laughed. Apparently, even cult kids had moms with expectations. “What is this place?”
“The Armory.”
It seemed awfully beautiful for an armory.
When the women were gone, Diana led Alia down the embankment and beneath an arch buried in flowers. Alia reached out and touched a cream-colored rose, its petals tipped with red and heavy with rain. She’d never seen a more perfect blossom, and it was nearly as big as her head.
“Gauntlet roses,” Diana said. “Jericho lilies, nasturtiums. They’re all plants associated with war or victory. My mother really loves a theme.”
“Doesn’t sound weird at all,” murmured Alia.
But when they entered the Armory, her jaw dropped. The room was a vast hexagon topped by an enormous dome. Each wall featured a different weapon: swords, axes, daggers, staffs, as well as things with spikes and prongs and creepy little barbs that Alia had no name for. The walls seemed to be organized chronologically, the oldest-and most rustic-looking weapons at the top, their sleek, modern counterparts closer to the bottom.
“No guns,” she noted.
Diana looked at her like she was daft. “The gun is the coward’s weapon.”
“Hmmm,” Alia said diplomatically. The gun was also the most effective weapon. There was a reason you didn’t see cops walking around with double axes. An anti-gun, horticulture-loving survivalist cult. Maybe they were just hippies who happened to be weapons collectors?
“What is that thing?” Alia asked, pointing to a staff topped by a giant claw.
“A zhua. It’s used for robbing a mounted opponent of her shield.”
“It looks like the world’s deadliest mop.”
Diana considered it. “Perhaps you can use it to scare the floor clean.”
They crossed the vast room, past padded floor mats and dummies clearly intended for sparring. “You guys just leave all of this lying around? Seems dangerous.”
“No weapons are permitted outside the Armory unless they have been sanctioned for exhibitions.”
“What if someone steals something?”
“How? These belong to everyone.”
Alia silently added socialist to her list of cult adjectives. Jason would not approve. But she didn’t want to think about her brother or how worried he must be. Or the fact that she might not see him again if she didn’t find a way off this island.
They walked through another archway and entered a smaller room. The light was dimmer here, filtered through the blue panels of a stained-glass dome above. The chamber was full of glass cases fitted with clever mirrors that made their contents seem to float in the blue-tinted light. It was like standing at the center of a sapphire.
The cases had no labels or plaques, and each had a different costume in it—a breastplate of pounded bronze and a pair of weathered sandals; the segmented steel and leather of what Alia thought might be samurai armor; heavy furs and beaded saddlebags; a pilot’s jumpsuit that looked like it might be from the twenties—Alia wasn’t too clear on the history of military fashion, though Nim would know. But when Alia looked closer, she saw the pilot’s jacket was riddled with bullet holes. She peered at the heavy plated armor in the case beside it. It had a hole in it, as if it had been pierced by a spear.
There was something else: the armor, the way the clothes were cut, the crowns and bracelets and boots. Alia stopped dead. They’d seen twenty or thirty people on the road into the city—and not a single man.
“Hold up,” said Alia. Diana was standing in front of a glass case at the center of the room, larger and brighter than the others, lit by white light piercing the oculus at the top of the dome. “Are there any men on this island?”
Diana shook her head. “No.”
“None?”
“No.”
“Holy shit, are you guys some kind of radical feminist cult?”
Diana frowned. “Not exactly?”
“Are you all lesbians?”
“Of course not.”
“It’s cool if you are. Nim’s gay. Maybe bi. She’s figuring it out.”
“Who’s Nim?”
“My best friend.” My only friend, Alia did not add. Jason didn’t count. And Theo was more “just a friend” than actual friend.
“Some like men, some like women, some like both, some like nothing at all.”
“But why no guys, then?”
“It’s a long story.”
“And how were you born here if there are no guys allowed?”
“That’s a longer story.” Diana turned back to the case and lifted the latch but then hesitated. Tentatively, as if she was afraid the metal might burn, she reached inside the case and took out a slender gold crown, a huge ruby cut like a star at its center.
Alia had seen a lot of big jewels on a lot of Park Avenue socialites, but nothing like that. “Who does that belong to?”
“Me, I guess. My mom had it made when I was born. But I’ve never worn it.”