Kappa's Bond

Priscilla couldn't count past the number 20. Fortunately, no one at the temple cared. It wasn't necessary to count further, since there were only that many priestesses total. Whenever a gift was delivered it was easy to find the right woman.

Once there had been more, many more. Perhaps a set of 20 even past 20. But when the plague came it smote the virtuous as well as the wicked. Priscilla herself barely survived as a young child, and was fortunate to have made a home in the temple serving the remaining mystics.

Juggling a basket of used wraps one day, Priscilla almost ran into someone. She bowed low, murmured an apology, and waited for her to pass by before continuing on her way.

The young Lady Joanna put a hand to Priscilla's crown of hair. "You are such a faithful servant."

"Thank you."

"Tell me: do you wish to stay such, or would you desire more for your life?"

They asked her questions sometimes, the priestesses. Confined as they were to the temple, they often begged her for news of the world outside. In return they would share the offerings of the temple with her, granting her trinkets they no longer desired or foods they had no taste for. Priscilla shrugged. "What else would I be?"

Joanna quirked her full, expressive lips. "Anything. And nothing. Both could be yours for the asking."

"I would rather have my supper each night," Priscilla answered without guile.

"And you are wise to say so." The lady left her, and Priscilla continued about her tasks.

It was a very casual, meaningless conversation. But that night, as she finished laying out the garments for the next day, Joanna found her. "The Temple Mother wishes you to dine with her."

"Oh!" It was the only thing she could think to say, and still no words came to her as Joanna and a few others bathed her, dressed her, did her hair. It was far more than they had ever done before. At last they brought her to a room deep within the temple, one she had only served a handful of times. Old Milka, the Mother's personal slave, bowed as she held the curtain back.

The Temple Mother reclined before a rich table. "Welcome, daughter," she greeted Priscilla, and gestured to the pillow beside her.

Priscilla lay carefully, the rich texture soft against her skin. "My deepest thanks, Mother," she replied, head bowed.

They ate, lamb and greens and rice, and Priscilla answered the few questions the Mother graced her with. She wished she had brought something to give in return.

At last the Mother said, "Priscilla, when you were brought to us, we thanked the gods for such a gift. You have served us faithfully. Now, it is time for you to choose: will you remain with us as you have, like my dear Milka, serving unto the end of your days? Or do you wish to be released unto the world from whence you came?"

It was akin to Joanna's question, but this time, Priscilla knew she must answer far more carefully. "Is the temple not my home, Mother?"

The Mother laughed. "Such simplicity of spirit is a blessing, Priscilla, remember that. It is easy to remember it here. But you may, one day, desire more than the company of old women."

"But you are not old!" Priscilla protested.

"Child, child, you do not know enough to say so," the Mother chided her. "But that is our fault. We, after all, took you."

"To protect me."

"And ourselves." The Mother came to her, cupped her chin, ran fingers in Priscilla's curls. "There is a law here, one we follow without thought: to survive. The gods demand our sacrifice as much as those of others. When we enter here, we leave all family, past or future, behind. We are cut off from those we serve. They fear us, respect us, but do not love us. So when the plagues came, and none of our prayers helped, there were some who thought we might no longer be needed." The Mother sat beside her, eyes milky in the fading candlelight, her anointed hair dipping low across her shoulder, just touching Priscilla's arm. "They were afraid, because the king had died, and then his wife, and their children. His brother was forced to leave his vineyard, abandon his home and his wife's new grave, and lead the people. He had only one request of us, one thing we must do in exchange for our existence."

Priscilla gasped, a drop of sound in the story's pool. "The king had a daughter." It was not a question. She had heard the tale before.

The Mother nodded. "He feared for her life as the disease raged on. Then he feared for her care if she should live. We are well suited to guarding secrets."

A fly buzzed about them. Priscilla watched it land amongst the feast's remains, wings fluttering like her heart.

She did not know her father. She did no know her family. She did not know much of life in the world beyond at all.

"What do the gods say?" It was always the right question to ask in the temple.

"Nothing, child," the Mother replied. "This question is not one for them: it is for you to decide."

Priscilla counted her heartbeats as she stared at the fly, thinking. When she got to 20, she stopped. She had never tried to count beyond 20 before. After all, those were the only numbers that mattered.

But what about the one that came next?

The fly flew away, and Priscilla turned to the Mother, her breath in her nose and her heart in her throat. "If I left, could I come back?"

"Perhaps. But you might not wish to. The spell of simplicity, once lost, is hard to find again."

Learning what came beyond could not be forgotten.

But, even so, those next numbers would exist regardless of her choice. "If I may go see him, I would like to."

The Mother tapped a ringed finger on her hand. "I pray you will enjoy the world you are entering."

"Oh, it can be so different," Priscilla answered, again without guile or thought. "There can not be so many more numbers beyond 20, can there?"