Ruby Ruins

lye soap. He scrubbed; subs appeared.
Ōbhin peeled off his gloves. He rarely took them off during the day. It wasn’t proper for a man to be seen with his hands naked. The Lothonians had strange customs. Men bare-handed and women bare-faced. He didn’t know what these “microbial” were, but he wasn’t risking Avena’s life.
Dualayn handed over the soap. Ōbhin scrubbed his brown hands with the white suds. He worked fast, the water vanishing down the drain, his thoughts drifting through recriminations. I didn’t know she was behind me, part of him protested against the dark guilt pressing around him.
Finished, Ōbhin turned to find Dualayn anointing the small topazes with wood alcohol. The sharp, antiseptic scent stung the Qothian’s nose. Then Dualayn picked up a scalpel, a small emerald inserted at the base wrapped in gold wire.
“A resonance knife?” Ōbhin asked.
“Yes. I observed the way the emerald on your tulwar is cut and wrapped by the wires.” Dualayn drew in a deep, perhaps fortifying breath. “Now, I need you to hold her head still.”
Ōbhin gripped the sides of Avena’s head, his naked fingers sliding over her brown tresses. Dualayn grabbed the end of the backsword in tight hands and pulled. The steely grind of metal on bone clenched Ōbhin’s jaw. Avena bucked as the blade came free, coated in a smear of her blood. More oozed out, mixed with a clear liquid.
Her spasms slowed. Stopped.
“Okay,” Dualayn said, setting the length of blood-smeared metal down beside her and grabbing a healer. He activated it and pressed the jewelchine into her throat. “This will keep her alive for the next part.” He tied the gem in place with a linen bandage, the orange light bleeding through the cloth.
“Next part?” Ōbhin asked, staring at the blood oozing out of the hole in her head, matting her hair.
“We’re going to sit her up,” Dualayn explained. “You need to hold her head still by the base of her head and her jaw. No higher.”
“Okay,” Ōbhin answered slowly. It sounded like no healing procedure he recognized. “Why?”
Dualayn picked up the scalpel. “I’m going to remove the top of her skull.”
“What?” roared Ōbhin. “You’ll kill her. Her brain will fall out.”
“It’s attached to her body by the spinal cords, the retinal nerves, the auditory nerves, and a few others. The level of anatomical knowledge I have learned from the Recorder is amazing. This was something the ancients used to do. Brain surgery, they called it. They healed traumatic injuries with skills and knowledge I barely grasp. I promise you, this is her only chance. I can’t reduce the swelling without at least trepanning her. That’s drilling a hole in her skull to let the fluids drain. This will, I hope, let me repair the damage directly. Now sit her up!”
Dualayn’s command came with the intensity of a sword instructor. Ōbhin reacted like he would to the man who’d taught him to fight with a resonance blade in service of the Satrap of Qoth. With care, he sat Avena upright. Her head leaned back, not supported by her neck. He shifted his hand to the base of her skull, cradling her.
“I don’t have time to shave her,” Dualayn muttered. “I’m terrified this will be too late as is . . .” He sliced through her braid of hair with the scalpel. It fell to the table. Her shortened hair swayed loose about her head. He activated the scalpel’s emerald.
It resonated.
Ōbhin fought against his pounding heart to hold her head still as Dualayn worked. Supreme concentration tensed every muscle in the older man’s plump face. He cut the blade through her skull like it didn’t exist. He worked slowly, pushing her hair out of the way while circling her head. Blood oozed from the line he cut, soaking into her tresses.
The muscles in Ōbhin’s arms burned from the strain of holding her in place. His chainmail armor weighed on him. It clinked, the only other sound besides the humming of the resonance knife cutting through Avena’s skull.
This is insane, Ōbhin thought over and over. It’ll kill her. You can’t take a person’s skull off. That’s what protects their mind.
Stray strands of her hair drifted off, severed as effortlessly by the vibrating knife as Avena’s skull. He held the blade just so, controlling the depth of his incision. Dualayn moved around the table, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ōbhin to finish. He made the last cut a straight line made with delicate care. He crossed her temple. Blood trickled down to her eyebrows. He neared where he’d begun as he passed beneath her wound.
Finished.
He turned off the scalpel and set it down. He grasped the top of Avena’s head and, with great care, lifted it.
Ōbhin stared with a strange mix of horror and fascination at Avena’s brain. Two gray-lobes of white wrinkled and folded flesh joined by a small canyon. It reminded him of dried prunes sold by hawkers. Veins wound through the matter. Dualayn’s scalpel didn’t seem to have cut her brain. The only wound was the bleeding gash from the sword. Dark blood oozed out, the organ inflamed around it, swollen and bulging.
“Avena,” Ōbhin croaked. His entire body trembled. He feared to breathe, terrified of dislodging the seat of her very being.
“I know,” Dualayn whispered. “Okay, now lay her back down gently. Don’t worry. Her brain won’t fall out. Just go slow.”
Like he lowered a newborn infant to the cradle, Ōbhin leaned Avena back. His hand held the back of her head, what remained of it, while Dualayn placed a small mound of clean linens for her to rest upon. Ōbhin settled her down on it and slipped his hand away.
He shook worse than he had after any fight. He felt drained by the act of witnessing the surgery. His chainmail rustled as he took a step back. His naked