And with that he had his Grand Vizier escort the three boys down several long hallways and through a hidden doorway none of them had ever seen before.

"Wait here," he said. "Your father will arrive soon enough to explain the rules."

One hour passed. Then another. Then another still. And then, with no fanfare, the King appeared, trailed by his courtiers, physicians, and Queen. Silently, he approached his sons and bowed.

"Flesh of my flesh," he began, pointing to a large wooden door before him. "In a moment, I will enter this room and stand in middle. I will bring nothing with me -- only my love for you and my curiosity. Then, one by one, each of you will have his turn. Three times I will perform this experiment. The door will open and, starting with my first born, when it is your turn, you will enter. Your task will be a simple one -- to tell me what you see in the room. That's it. But you will only have a brief amount of time to accomplish the task. If you take too long, you will be disqualified. Understand?

And with that, the Grand Vizier turned the boys around so their backs were to the door. Then he grabbed the hand of the eldest son, walked him to the door, opened it, and spoke one word: "Enter." The boy walked in. The room was completely dark.

"Well..." said the King, "what do you see, my son?"

"Nothing, father. There is nothing here, but you."

"Thank you, my son. Well said. Now turn around and when the door opens, exit quickly."

Now it was the middle son's turn. The Grand Vizier approached, took him by the hand, walked him to the door, opened it and spoke one word: "Enter."

The boy walked in. The room was still completely dark.

"Well... said the King, "what do you see, my boy?"

"Nothing, father," he replied. "There is nothing here but you. And, of course, me, too."

"Thank you, my son. Well said. A most important distinction you have made. Now turn around and when the door opens, exit quickly."

Now it was the youngest son's turn. Again, the Grand Vizier approached, took him by the hand, walked him to the door, opened it and spoke one word. "Enter."

Like his two brothers before him, the boy walked in. The room was still completely dark.

"Well..." said the King, "what do you see, my youngest born?"

"Nothing, my father. I see nothing. And while I know I have only the briefest amount of time to reply, may I ask you a question?"

"Yes, my son, you may."

"In all your many years, as King, what would you say is the most important thing you have learned?"

"Hmm..." replied the King. "An excellent question. Most astute and worthy of my consideration, no doubt. But my answer, long as it will likely be, will only distract us from the task at hand. We have the next King to select now, don't we?"

But even in the few seconds it took for the King to respond, the eyes of the youngest son began adjusting to the darkness. Where only seconds ago, only blackness prevailed, now he began seeing the faintest outline of things -- a chair, a small table next to it, and a candlestick.

"Oh father," said the son, "thank you for your sage counsel. You are indeed, a man of great wisdom. But before I take my leave, please allow me to tell you what I see: a chair, a table next to it, and a candlestick."

The King took a long, slow breath. Then he exhaled even more slowly. "Well done, my son, well done. You see clearly. You see what is here. And because you do, you shall be the one to inherit my throne!"

One contest. Three sons. Three different responses. The first son, the eldest, spoke the truth. He saw nothing and said so, noting only the obvious presence of the King. The second son, also saw nothing, but had the clarity of mind to acknowledge his own presence in the room. The third son, the youngest, was the only one who understood that seeing sometimes takes time and that first impressions aren't always accurate -- so he bought himself the time he needed by asking the King a question -- providing him just enough time for his eyes to adjust to the dimmest of light.

And so it is with the wisdom inside us. It is not always immediately apparent to us. Indeed, it is often shrouded in darkness, hidden from sight. And where it is hidden, more times than not, is in our stories -- the faraway room within us in which the King abides. And the chair. And the table. And the candlestick. If we want to see what's there, we need to give it some time. We need to get curious, ask our questions, and allow our eyes to adjust to the available light, even if, at first glance, it seems as if nothing is there.

Excerpted from Storytelling for the Revolution