It was too risky.
It was also risky to simply take him, injuries, arrow and all, and go.
Here she had the fire for warmth and light; clean, running water; and supplies.
This was the best place to help him before they ran. So she would have to make it safe to do that.
She rested a cheek against one of the horses' flanks, stroked it, and thought what she needed to do.
She would have to render all the soldiers harmless to give her time to help Luc.
But she needed Luc quiet and asleep while she did it, and so deeply asleep he wouldn't feel the pain while she removed the arrow and stitched him up.
But first, the guards on watch had to go.
She worked her way through the bags again, brought out a white undershirt. It had to be easy to see, so this would be perfect.
She worked sleep into it at the hem, but also the need to hand the shirt to the other guard, so the working transferred to him. If this worked, they would both go down one after the other, while her only risk would be placing it somewhere they could find it without being seen herself.
She waited for a chance, watching them as they made a lack-luster patrol, but they were never far enough away from the fire for her to creep closer without being seen.
Eventually, afraid time was wasting, she went back to one of the saddlebags that had contained something smooth and heavy, and brought out a piece of wood someone was carving. They had almost finished, and she ran her hand over the design with interest, before she threw it toward the river.
It landed with a splash, and both guards turned. One took a burning stick from the fire and they walked over to look.
She slipped from behind the horses, threw the shirt on the ground, and then ran silently back amongst them.
“Must have been a fish,” one of the guards said, and turned.
“Didn't sound like a fish,” the other answered.
“Hey. Was this here a minute ago?” The guard walked to the shirt, bent and picked it up. He held it in his hand and rubbed the fabric between his fingers.
“What is it?”
The second soldier came up beside him, and the guard held the shirt out. “Look at this.”
Ava held her breath, and then the second soldier took it. Sniffed it.
“Maybe there's a breeze and it blew from someone's tent.” He didn't sound certain, because the night was absolutely still.
The first soldier yawned, and then walked to the fire, curled up facing it, and closed his eyes.
“I . . .” The second guard stared at him, then walked over himself, settled in beside his friend, and went to sleep.
Ava felt a fizz of elation.
But there were still plenty of others to go. And Luc to help.
She found a soft scarf in a saddlebag that was nicer than the others. She guessed it belonged to the general.
She thought through what she needed with Luc, and worked deep, healing sleep into the soft fabric.
She gave the horses a final pat and then walked over to him, keeping her gaze on the sleeping soldiers, but neither of them stirred as she walked past them and crouched beside her lover.
He was lying on his back, and the arrow was sticking out of his chest. It was difficult to look at.
His side was also bloody where the general had stabbed him.
As she dropped the scarf on his stomach, his eyes suddenly opened, his hand coming out to grab her wrist.
She almost screamed in reaction, swallowing it down as he went limp the instant the scarf landed on his naked torso.
He had been awake.
She knelt beside him, shaken, then looked over at the tents, her heart pounding at the possibility that one of the soldiers might have heard her, but no one stirred.
Did she take the scarf away?
She decided no.
This was good news, she realized. Luc wasn't as hurt as he'd seemed, and once she'd stitched him, they could get away faster than she'd thought they'd be able to.
She walked to the tents and one by one began to stitch a working into the canvas. To sleep a long time. To not let any sounds disturb that sleep. To be afraid to come out until getting water became a matter of life and death.
When she was finished, she went back to the soldiers sleeping by the fire, and stitched a version of the same working into each of their cloaks.
At last, with everyone dealt with, she walked over to Luc and took out Banyon's knife. The rope they'd used was thick and it took time to cut through.
When he was free, she took out one of the sewing kits, her own needle, and went to get a bowl of water from the river.
There were a few medical kits in the saddlebags. Just bandages, cloths and some salves, but all useful.
She used the cloths to wipe him clean of blood, then examined the arrow.
The need to hurry was a constant thump in her chest, but she resisted the urge. She had bought them time. She would use it.
She carefully took hold of the arrow and worked it out as gently as she could.
It hadn't gone in deep and it came out suddenly in her hand.
Blood, sluggish and dark, welled up from the wound and she wiped it away over and over, until it slowed.
Then she stitched it closed, thinking the same thoughts of strength and health she had when she'd stitched his arm.
His side was not as bad, and the bleeding had stopped some time ago, so she cleaned it, and stitched it closed, too.
Then she stood and chose two of the horses.
One had had nothing unpacked from its saddlebags at all, and she guessed this belonged to the man Luc had killed in the wood.
The other horse she took was big. Big enough to take Luc's size and weight.
She guessed it belonged to the general, although he wasn't a particularly large man, and she transferred the medical kits, food and some clothes she thought might fit Luc into its saddlebags.
They had taken his sword from him, but it was lying near the fire, and she had a feeling he had become attached to it. She added it to one of the saddlebags, then went to fill one of the soldiers' cups with water.
When she was ready, she led the horses closer to Luc and pulled the scarf off him, throwing it into the fire.
He lay still for a long time, until the horses began to get restless and nickered softly. She bit her lip, wondering whether to wake him, when he turned, still deeply asleep, onto his injured side, and woke with a hiss of pain.
“Ava.” His whisper was harsh, croaking.
She held out the water to him, and he took the cup, emptying it in a few swallows.
“Let's go.” She held out the horse's reins.
His gaze went to the soldiers asleep by the fire, and his eyes narrowed. Found hers.
He said nothing as they stared at each other while he rose stiffly to his feet, took the reins from her and lifted himself gingerly into the saddle.
Suddenly, as if he'd just remembered he'd had an arrow in him, he looked down at his chest, bending his head to look at her stitch work.
He caught her gaze again, and she knew she would not get away with not answering this time.
He led the way, riding the horse upstream and crossing at a narrow, shallow point.
She kept close to him, watching him carefully to make sure he was not into too much pain to continue.
She needed to meet with the dogs. Needed to go her own way, and she suddenly had a feeling he wouldn't be as sad about that now as he had been before.
It was a hard road to happiness, her grandmother had warned her.
The best life partner was one who understood. Who supported.