true to her word, carla the cook gave yara a sound thrashing the next day, after the seven guests had left.
yara did not care. she knew that some day, probably some day soon, either the handsome young prince would come and take her away, or the sky would open up and a golden bird or dragon would carry her away to her own kingdom.
it was only a matter of time. of waiting.
and carla the cook would get hers. that is, if yara could even be bothered with her.
meanwhile, life went on at the inn, with yara performing such duties as were required of her by old zashaw and by carla. but as business was slow, these duties were not too onerous, and yara spent much of her time dreaming of the beautiful future which surely awaited her.
the only question was, which would come first, the golden bird or dragon, or the prince?
or perhaps none of them would come, and when yara was old enough in a few years time she would simply take to the highway herself and conquer her own kingdom - the one which her beauty entitled her to.
on one particularly cold, dreary, and rainy evening, the prince arrived.
he arrived with only a few attendants, and in a plain carriage and wearing plain clothing as if he were attempting to be incognito, but he fooled nobody.
not old zashaw, not carla or murgle the maid or samson the stable boy, and especially not yara, who knew right away that her prince, and her time, had come.
the prince’s attendants - two stout dark visaged fellows who looked as if they had fought in many a battle - carried his bags up to the best room in the inn under the guidance of murgle, while zashaw, with the assistance of samson, prepared as cheerful and blazing a fire as he could in the dining room.
the crafty zashaw kept yara out of sight for the moment, waiting until the prince was as comfortable as he could be made, before blinding him with the sight of the maid.
the prince looked on disinterestedly as the the fire was stoked.
“please, your highness, make yourself comfortable,” zashaw smiled ingratiatingly and pulled a chair away from the table. “ours is a poor establishment, but i hope you will find our fare hearty at least.”
“what is this ‘hignness’? i am no prince, nor king nor duke either. were you expecting some prince? you must have confused me with him,” the prince replied easily as he seated himself. “very flattering, to be sure.”
“no - sir, we were expecting no one in particular,” zashaw quickly rejoindered. “it is just that your - your bearing, sir - led me to think you a gentleman of some consequence.”
“indeed.” the prince stripped his gloves off and placed them on the table, revealing long powerful swordsman’s hands a bit at odds with his otherwise somewhat delicate appearance. “in any case, hearty fare, if you can provide it, is the best fare, as we have a long journey ahead of us.”
“to be sure, sir. and your men, too, shall have hearty fare in the kitchen.”
“they are not my men, they are my comrades. they will dine with me.”
“of course, sir, as you wish. i will have places prepared for them.”
yara heard and watched all this from a crack in the door to the kitchen . behind her she could feel the heat of the stove, and of the basilisk stare of clara.
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