It was not only his own doubts that made him wait. Rona, too, urged caution. He understood her gestures well enough; he could even make out a word or two now. Not yet, she was telling him, not just yet. And because he had not forgotten, and never would forget what he had been, Eyvind spent the time preparing himself as best he could. He would not be fighting Somerled with sword or axe or fists. But neither did he wish to be murdered by the wayside before he even got there. He could imagine what Grim and Erlend and Holgar would say if he went back, and could not even lift a drinking cup without spilling half the contents. He could imagine what Somerled would think if his chief guard could scarcely walk from sleeping quarters to hall without stopping to rest his trembling legs. So he readied his body, and in the harsh tests he set himself, he tried to clear his mind of Nessa. He would do what she wanted, he was bound to that. Probably he would die. He had seen that in her eyes, though she had not put it into words. Perhaps it was better if he did die, for try as he might he could not banish her from his thoughts.