The Princess Bride

first fencing championship. He had arrived shortly before the tournament was to begin, and he had come with a heavy heart. Tears always behind his eyes. He could not shake his mood, because of what had just happened to him in Italy, on his first visit there. A journey he had begun with such hopes....

BY THE TIME he turned twenty, Inigo Montoya of Arabella, Spain, had spent his last eight years wandering the world. He had not yet begun the hunt for the six-fingered man who had killed his beloved father, Domingo. He was not ready and would not be until the great swordmaker, Yeste, pronounced him so. Yeste, his father's dearest friend, would never send him out if there were flaws. Flaws would not only bring death but, far worse, humiliation.

Inigo knew one thing and that only: when he finally found his tormenter, when he was at last able to face him and say, 'Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die,' there could be no question in his mind of defeat. The six-fingered man was a master. And so, preparing for such a master, Inigo had wandered the world. Getting stronger as he grew, learning from whoever could teach him mysteries that needed solving. Lately, he had begun to specialize. His talents were past phenomenal, but still not good enough to get the blessing of Yeste.

He had recently been to Iceland, to spend months with Ardnock, the great frozen terrain expert. Inigo had already mastered fighting from below and from above, fighting from trees, from rocks, in rapids. But what if the six- fingered man was from the far north, and they battled on frost, or freshly watered ice? And what if Inigo, helpless and slipping, lost his balance, lost the battle, lost everything?

After Iceland, he spent half a year on the equator, studying with Atumba, the master of heat, because what if the six-fingered man came from a steaming country, and what if they battled in the heat of the hottest day, temperature at 150, and what if the grip of his sword went wet for a moment in his hand?

Now, having just turned twenty, he was in Italy, to see Piccoli, the tiny ancient, the acknowledged king of the mind. (Piccoli was from the most famous line of great Italian teachers—another branch was centered in Venice and taught singing to every famous Italian tenor whose name ends in a vowel.) Inigo knew he would not be able to think when his death battle came. His mind had to be a spring day, and his movements had to come on their own, his spins and twists and thrusts all had to leap unbidden.

Piccoli lived in a small stone house, in the employ of Count Cardinale, the strange and secret man who controlled most of the country. Piccoli had heard of Inigo because although Yeste was the greatest and most famous maker of swords, there were rumors that when he was confronted with a task that was too much even for him, he would go to the town of Arabella, high in the hills above Toledo, to the hovel of one Domingo Montoya, a widower who lived with a young son.

It was there that the six-fingered sword had been forged.

Could it truly be the wonder of his world? Piccoli had heard of it for a decade, yearned to see it dance before he died. The greatest weapon since Excalibur and where was it now? Gone with the child Montoya from the house of Yeste. And where was that child?

Piccoli had spent his entire long life training his mind, so that he had the ability to sit for a day in the middle of a mad battle and know nothing of the screams and slaughter going on around him. When he was in his mind, he was as if dead. And every morning at dawn he would go into his mind and stay there 'til noon. No power could disturb him.

He had gone into his mind at dawn, one day, there to stay 'til the sun was highest—but on this one morning, at eight o'clock, a strangeness.

He was in his mind as he always was at six and at seven and at half-past seven, and at quarter 'til eight, and ten 'til, and five and four and three—

—and then Piccoli was pierced by something so dazzling even he had to open his eyes—

—to see a young man approaching, tall, blade-thin, muscular, spring-legged, who was handsome enough but would have been more than that, save for the two scars that paralleled his cheeks—

—who held such glory in his hands, the sun was dancing there.

Piccoli could not breathe as the young man approached. 'I want to see Mr. Piccoli, please.'

'I wish to see your sword.'

Piccoli trembled as he took it in his tiny hands. 'What could you possibly want from me?' He could not take his eyes off the weapon. 'You have the world here.'

Inigo told him.

'You want me to teach you to control your mind?' Piccoli asked.

Inigo nodded. 'I have come from very far.'

'A waste, I fear. You are young. The young have not the patience. They are stupid. They think their bodies will save them.'

'Let me learn.'

'Pointless. Go wage your battle without me.'

'I beg you.'

Piccoli sighed. 'All right. Let me show you how stupid you are. Answer my queries: what on all the earth do you want more than anything?'

'Why, to kill the six-fingered man, of course.'

And with that Piccoli started screaming: 'Wrong, wrong! Listen—see what I say.' His voice grew soft, seductive. 'The six-fingered man has his sword in his hand—he thrusts—see what I say, Montoya, watch the sword. He has thrust the sword toward your father, now the sword is entering your father's heart, Domingo's heart is shredded and you are ten and standing there, you are helpless, do you remember that moment? I command you, remember that moment! '

Inigo could not stop his sudden tears.

'Now you are watching him fall. Look—look at him—watch Domingo die—'

Inigo began sobbing out of all control.

'Tell me what you feel—'

Inigo was barely able to speak the word: 'Pain...'

'Yes, right, of course, pain, killing pain. That's what you should want more than anything, an end to your pain.'

'...yes...'

'That pain is with you, every moment every day?'

'...yes...'

'If you think of ending your pain, you will kill the six-fingered man. But if you only think revenge, he will kill you, because he has already taken the thing on earth you treasured most, and he will know that, and when you battle he will say things, he will taunt you, he will talk about your pathetic father and he will laugh at your love for a failure like Domingo, and you will scream in rage and your revenge will take control and you will attack blindly—and then he will cut you to pieces.'

Inigo saw it all, and it was true. He saw himself charging and heard himself screaming and then he felt the six-fingered man's sword as it entered his body, drove through his heart. 'Please, do not let me lose to him,' he finally managed to say.

Piccoli looked at the shattered young man before him. He gently returned the six-fingered sword. 'Go dry your tears, Montoya,' he said at last. 'We start your training in the morning...'

IT WAS SAVAGE work. Inigo had never imagined it would be anything less, but Piccoli was merciless beyond human reckoning. For eight years Inigo had sprinted two hours each day, to make his legs muscular and strong. Now, with Piccoli he could not sprint at all. For eight years he had squeezed apple-size rocks two hours a day, so his wrists might deliver the death blow from any and all positions. Now, rock squeezing was banned. For eight years he had never skipped and dodged less than two hours a day so his legs would be quick. Now, no skipping, no dodging.

Inigo's body, so lash-strong, so whippet-quick, the body he had shaped for lethal combat, the body that was the envy of most men. That body? Piccoli hated it. 'Your body is your enemy while you are with me,' Piccoli explained. 'We must weaken it for now. It is the only way you can grow your mind. As long as you think you can fight your way out of trouble, you will never be able to fight your way out of trouble.'