A whole year of that. A year of the handle being right but the balance being wrong, of the balance being right, but the cutting edge too dull, of the cutting edge sharpened, but that threw the balance off again, of the balance returning, but now the point was fat, of the point regaining sharpness, only now the entire blade was too short and it all had to go, all had to be thrown out, all had to be done again. Again. Again. Domingo's health began to leave him. He was fevered always now, but he forced his frail shell on, because this had to be the finest since Excalibur. Domingo was battling legend, and it was destroying him.
Such a year.
One night Inigo woke to find his father seated. Staring. Calm. Inigo followed the stare.
The six-fingered sword was done.
Even in the hut's darkness, it glistened.
"At last," Domingo whispered. He could not take his eyes from the glory of the sword. "After a lifetime, Inigo. Inigo. I am an artist."
The big-shouldered nobleman did not agree. When he returned to purchase the sword, he merely looked at it a moment. "Not worth waiting for," he said.
Inigo stood in the corner of the hut, watching, holding his breath.
"You are disappointed?" Domingo could scarcely get the words spoken.
"I'm not saying it's trash, you understand," the nobleman went on. "But it's certainly not worth five hundred pieces of gold. I'll give you ten; it's probably worth that."
"Wrong!" Domingo cried. "It is not worth ten. It is not worth even one. Here." And he threw open the drawer where the one goldpiece had lain untouched the year. "The gold is yours. All of it. You have lost nothing." He took back the sword and turned away."At last," Domingo whispered. He could not take his eyes from the glory of the sword. "After a lifetime, Inigo. Inigo. I am an artist."
The big-shouldered nobleman did not agree. When he returned to purchase the sword, he merely looked at it a moment. "Not worth waiting for," he said.
Inigo stood in the corner of the hut, watching, holding his breath.
"You are disappointed?" Domingo could scarcely get the words spoken.
"I'm not saying it's trash, you understand," the nobleman went on. "But it's certainly not worth five hundred pieces of gold. I'll give you ten; it's probably worth that."
"Wrong!" Domingo cried. "It is not worth ten. It is not worth even one. Here." And he threw open the drawer where the one goldpiece had lain untouched the year. "The gold is yours. All of it. You have lost nothing." He took back the sword and turned away.
"I'll take the sword," the nobleman said. "I didn't say I wouldn't take it. I only said I would pay what it was worth."
Domingo whirled back, eyes bright. "You quibbled. You haggled. Art was involved and you saw only money. Beauty was here for the taking and you saw only your fat purse. You have lost nothing; there is no more reason for your remaining here. Please go."
"The sword," the noble said.
"The sword belongs to my son," Domingo said. "I give it to him now. It is forever his. Good-by."
"You're a peasant and a fool and I want my sword."
"You're an enemy of art and I pity your ignorance," Domingo said.
They were the last words he ever uttered.
The noble killed him then, with no warning; a flash of the nobleman's sword and Domingo's heart was torn to pieces.
Inigo screamed. He could not believe it; it had not happened. He screamed again. His father was fine; soon they would have tea. He could not stop screaming.
The village heard. Twenty men were at the door. The nobleman pushed his way through them. "That man attacked me. See? He holds a sword. He attacked me and I defended myself. Now move from my way."
It was lies, of course, and everyone knew it. But he was a noble so what was there to do? They parted, and the nobleman mounted his horse.
"Coward!"
The nobleman whirled.
"Pig!"
Again the crowd parted.
Inigo stood there, holding the six-fingered sword, repeating his words: "Coward. Pig. Killer."
"Someone tend the babe before he oversteps himself," the noble said to the crowd.
Inigo ran forward then, standing in front of the nobleman's horse, blocking the nobleman's path. He raised the six-fingered sword with both his hands and cried, "I, Inigo Montoya, do challenge you, coward, pig, killer, ass, fool, to battle."
"Get him out of my way. Move the infant."
"The infant is ten and he stays," Inigo said.
"Enough of your family is dead for one day; be content," said the noble.
"When you beg me for your breath, then I shall be contented. Now dismount!"
The nobleman dismounted.
"Draw your sword."
The nobleman unsheathed his killing weapon.
"I dedicate your death to my father," Inigo said. "Begin."
They began.
It was no match, of course. Inigo was disarmed in less than a minute. But for the first fifteen seconds or so, the noble was uneasy. During those fifteen seconds, strange thoughts crossed his mind. For even at the age of ten, Inigo's genius was there.
Disarmed, Inigo stood very straight. He said not a word, begged nothing.
"I'm not going to kill you," the nobleman said. "Because you have talent and you're brave. But you're also lacking in manners, and that's going to get you in trouble if you're not careful. So I shall help you as you go through life, by leaving you with a reminder that bad manners are to be avoided." And with that his blade flashed. Two times.
And Inigo's face began to bleed. Two rivers of blood poured from his forehead to his chin, one crossing each cheek. Everyone watching knew it then: the boy was scarred for life.
Inigo would not fall. The world went white behind his eyes but he would not go to ground. The blood continued to pour. The nobleman replaced his sword, remounted, rode on.
It was only then that Inigo allowed the darkness to claim him.
He awoke to Yeste's face.
"I was beaten," Inigo whispered. "I failed him."
Yeste could only say, "Sleep."