The Boy and The Man, Offer R [ereader for textbooks .txt] 📗

the splendor of the interior of the palace and the festive atmosphere that seemed to be thickly present there didn't allay the burden. The Boy's arms were stiff with the weight of the sword case and the sword inside it, and his stomach was aching since he'd overeaten. No boy south of the forest could have a more desirable yet inaccessible dream than to be invited into the royal palace to celebrate some great fear of his. The Boy was in those very moments realizing this dream, yet he wished nothing more than to be back at home and have the whole thing forgotten.

But when the messenger knocked softly on the grand wooden door of the Prince's quarters, The Boy's wishes dissipated. He narrowed the spread of his lips to efface any trace of a smile, straightened his back as tightly as he could, and flattened his arms against his sides. This was the posture his mother had instructed him to assume when he was about to first meet the prince, affected by the noticeable influence of his anxiety. He felt quite silly standing like this, but then he felt most rich or royal people looked rather silly.

There was a long silent pause after the messenger's knock, and The Boy was filled with hope that there had been some urgent matter that would keep the prince and the whole event would be called off. Like many wishful hopes are, though, it vanished prematurely when the sound of footsteps tapping on a marble floor sounded from inside the room. A middle-aged servant opened the large wooden door and greeted the messenger.

"This is The Boy?" He asked. From the manner in which this short exchange was engaged it could be gathered that the servant was at a higher position than the messenger. The messenger obviously held some authority over The Boy. And the prince, well, to compare him even to his servant would be an outright farce. So you can only imagine how great the leap The Boy was making in the kingdom's well-structured social ladder was. Just a single isolated encounter between the two should be considered an occurrence rarer than an encounter between a man and a leopard.

The messenger nodded to the servant's question.

"Hello sir", the servant bade with no small measure of respect. It was the first time he could remember anyone calling him 'sir', and he found it rather to his liking. "The Prince awaits you. Come in, please. And hand me your shoes." The Boy did as he was told. He was surprised that, like the servant, he was to walk in his socks in the prince's quarters, which he found to be awfully informal. (It was very fortunate that his mother had made sure that he'd put on without holes that morning, which wasn't always the case). But when he saw the sparkling cleanliness of the cream-colored floor it seemed sinful to soil it with the dirty sole of a shoe that ever stepped outside.

The room was plush and spacious, with much room and many comfortable seats to entertain guests of the highest standing in. There was a beautiful, ivory-coated fireplace near the right corner of the room, though there were no logs in sight. The walls were hung with pictures of various scenic spots in the kingdom, and one large frame that contained a portrait of the prince. What a dashing young man he was! Beside the portrait was a stately wooden stand that held a single sheathed sword. The proximity between the portrait and the sword didn't seem coincidental. Clearly the young man in the portrait had swordsmanship running in his blood.

At the left the room opened into a wide corridor, which the servant marched into right after inviting The Boy to seat himself with no particular limitation and offering him a drink of his choice. The Boy could hear the servant knocking on a door that must've been the prince's bedroom and declaring the arrival of his guest. The Boy thought that if he had his own room only half as large and a quarter the level of luxury of the one he was in, he would be the richest man south of the forest. But to the prince this was only a guest room or entertainment room, and The Boy could imagine that his bedroom was twice as glamorous.

'If only I could be a prince', he thought. 'Even for a single day…'

But the prince didn't think as little of his guest as the guest thought highly of the prince. His respect for The Boy was greater than for every common resident of the kingdom, as well it should be since The Boy was the hero of the day. In fact, he thought of him as an equal, at least at the moment.

The Prince hobbled out of his bedroom without delay to meet his distinguished guest. The Boy rose to his feet when the prince appeared at the start of the corridor (as he'd been instructed to do), but was frankly quite disappointed at what he saw. Prince Conan wasn't the handsome, regal young man in the portrait or the superior being he'd been in The Boy's imagination, but a boy not entirely different from The Boy himself. He was almost a normal person, a few years older than The boy but certainly not a full-grown man. Yes, you'd better believe it: they were both made primarily of six natural elements, both walked on two legs, and both had a brain that thought and a heart that felt. In the eyes of creatures not human they were one and the same.

Well, let's not allow ourselves to get carried away and consider the two boys entirely similar. We see them through human eyes and therefore must acknowledge certain discrepancies between them, but the main point should be taken: their similarities outweighed their differences.

The Prince came very near before speaking, while The Boy held his tongue until spoken to, which is what every humble guest should do.

"It's a great honor to meet you", the lanky prince said, almost forcing The boy's hand to shake his. The prince had a firm shake and a piercing gaze, and despite everything we've said he was more regal an appearance than any kind of apparel could make the boy. He wore a puffy blue satin shirt with glittery white lacing that The Boy wondered if it was a symbol of royalty or of swordsmanship skills.

"The honor is mine, Your Highness", the boy replied, again repeating what mother had taught him the previous evening.

The prince chuckled nervously. "Call me Conan, please."

"Very well. And you may call me-"

"I'll call you 'Boy' if that's okay with you." Since the prince was almost as unfamiliar with the rules of conduct between commoners as The Boy was relating to royalty, this form of referral didn't seem inappropriate to him.

The Boy nodded and took a seat beside the prince in a long, flowery couch that sunk deep under their weight. The servant returned at this point with a glass of cold juice for The Boy and nothing for the prince.

"Thank you, Godfrey", the prince said. "Now leave us, please."

"Sir, your father will be waiting for you in exactly two hours at the foyer, after you've visited the tailor", Godfrey said apologetically.

"You don't have to remind me; we'll be there. Now leave us!" The prince snapped. He was noticeably nervous. It was the first indication The Boy had ever gotten that royal people could become nervous. He was a prince- what could he possibly have to be nervous of? Of course The Boy became even more nervous now, since anything that made the prince nervous had to be of a very grave nature. Indeed it was, as he was soon to find out, and we as well.

"I hope you're not disappointed with the sword I've sent you. It is one of the kingdom's finest", the prince said very graciously. But he didn't wait for The Boy's reply and added: "you must be very excited for today, Boy", said the prince, leveling his piercing green eyes at The Boy's. The Boy changed his mind about the prince's appearance: with his dark hair, fine white skin, subtly hooked nose and very expressive face (which in its normal state expressed solemnity), he was very handsome. Not as handsome as in the portrait hanging just above him at the moment, but certainly a joy to look at.

"Yes, indeed. Excited and nervous, to be frank", said The Boy.

"Nervous? What have you to be nervous for? You are a hero and, as they say, the finest young swordsman in the whole kingdom. " There was noticeable unease in the prince toward the end of this sentence.

The Boy blushed and clasped his hands together for lack of anything better to do with them. "Oh but you are far too kind, prince- I mean, Conan. The people embellish; I wish they didn't, but they do. I can't be half the swordsman you are. I assure you of it." How ironic was The Boy's situation: a day earlier there had been nothing he was grateful for more than the people's tendency to decorate the truth to make it, and themselves, more interesting, but now there was no end to his loathing of it.

"Yes, the people do embellish", the prince repeated pensively. "I agree with you there. But I can't agree with the other thing you said. If you knew the truth about the matter I'm afraid you might be exceedingly disappointed." The Boy screwed his face into an expression of sheer perplexity, and the prince continued: "I will tell you this truth, but you must vow secrecy to me here and now, and never betray me."

The Boy was shocked and intrigued. "Certainly. Why, your Highness, you needn't even mention it. A simple boy like myself would never betray your trust."

"No; you don't understand. If I tell you this one secret- this greatest secret I keep from the world- you must bury it with you in your grave. And even then it must be buried underneath you so that if they were to dig you out they still wouldn't find out."

Now The Boy could hardly contain himself. "If need be, I will remove my own tongue to avoid speaking it", he assured. And this assurance seemed to satisfy the prince as much as he could be satisfied on this point.

"Very well", he said. "You must also not question- not even once- the truthfulness of what I'm about to tell you. I profess to you here that I won't stray an inch from the truth, and I shall tolerate no expression of doubt on it. "

"You are the prince of our kingdom. The truth is what you claim it to be."

"In that case I will confess to you what I've confessed to no one, and then I shall ask a personal favor from you." The Boy leaned closer, his hands now grasping the edge of the seat of the couch. The Prince minced no more words and lowered his voice:

"I'm not the swordsman the kingdom believes me to be. In fact, despite my diligent training, my skills are quite poor. I can be no match to your famous dexterity." The Prince buried his handsome face in a pair of white hands in a very un-regal show of vulnerability. There was only one thought that came to the bewildered Boy's mind: 'There is a God in Heaven!'

He was careful, though, not to reveal this thought. He was also careful not to imply that the Prince was being overly modest or underestimating himself, as he'd vowed not to do. Instead he probed the background: "If that is the case, why was this event arranged? Surely, it was initiated by the royal family." This unpredictable turn of events stirred great confidence in The Boy's heart in the company of the prince. Finally he could feel that there was one aspect- even if one in a million- in which he could