There! This time she was certain. Another faint sound, closer this time, of gravel crunching underfoot. She closed the door a little farther, peering through a narrow crack.

The faint glow of the lantern at the end of the gallery was momentarily blotted out. Some large shape had moved across it. The loose board of the veranda steps creaked.

Her heart beating in her throat, she called out softly, “Is someone there?”

A grunt. “It’s me. Open up! Quick!”

She jumped up and threw the door wide.

A man, dressed in a monk’s robe, entered, bent under a large burden. She closed the door behind him and shot the latch. In the darkness, his rasping breath made a counterpoint to the snores of the sleeper. She groped for the candle and lit it.

The flickering light revealed the small, simple room, and the bowed figure of the visitor. He let his load roll off his shoulder onto the floor. It fell heavily, like all dead weights. The girl lay on her back, her eyes staring at nothing and her tongue protruding slightly between swollen lips. A hemp rope was still knotted about her throat.

The man sat down abruptly and buried his face in his hands.

“You took your time!” said the woman, giving him an irritated look. Then, turning her back to him, she started to undress. “Did you have any difficulties?” she asked.

He grunted something, staring at her, then nodded toward the sleeper. “What about him? What if he wakes up?”

“He won’t! He’s never had a head for strong drink and this time he won’t wake until morning. And by then it will be much too late.” She giggled, dropping her underrobe. He devoured her nakedness with hot eyes as she was bending over the dead girl.

“Here! Hold her up for me!” When he did not move immediately, she added impatiently, “Why are men so useless?”

He got to his feet meekly, averting his eyes from her breasts and groin. “I wish you’d put on some clothes!” he muttered.

“What?” She looked up, then smiled. “In a moment, my precious stallion.”

His hands trembled as they worked, and when they were done, she came to him, passionately, pushing him back onto the floor, possessing his body with her own urgency, and bringing them both to gasping orgasm. When they had finished, she rose and dressed, grimacing with distaste, while he turned away abruptly and buried his head in his arms.

“Now what’s the matter?” she asked. “Come! We’re almost done. Don’t get weak-kneed now! You know what must be done next.” She went to a traveling box and picked up the sword which lay on its top.

“I can’t,” he muttered, watching her, his handsome face distorted with fear. “I can’t look at her. You do it!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! In her condition she won’t feel a thing! You would think a man with your background wouldn’t balk at using a sword!” She pulled it from its scabbard and extended it to him.

He shuddered. “We shouldn’t have done it here! The spirits won’t like it.”

Coward, she thought, and cursed under her breath. She turned to draw the sharp blade across the dead girl’s throat. It bit deeply, nearly severing the head from the body, but there was very little blood. Then she said softly to him, “Please get up!”

When he stood, she came to him, the bloodied sword in hand, and looked up into his eyes pleadingly. She knew he could not resist her. “Come, my love! I have made a start. You are strong, and must do the rest. Just do this one last thing, and we can put the past behind us and live like princes the rest of our lives.”

His eyes wavered before hers. He nodded. She pressed the grip of the sword into his limp right hand and gave him a little push. He took the few steps to the corpse, raised the blade high, and brought it down. The bright steel flashed in the candlelight. Again and again he slashed, in a kind of frenzy, until the blade was black with blood and the girl’s face was no more.

She stopped him then, and took the dripping sword over to the sleeping man, to wipe the blade on his clothes before placing it into his limp right hand. “There!” she said with a nod. “It looks well! Now quick, back to your quarters! I’ll join you at dawn.”

He gulped, his eyes on the horror he had made of the girl’s head.

Opening the door cautiously, she listened, then waved to him.

When he had left, she glanced once more around the room, pushed the bloody head a little closer to the body with her foot, then extinguished the candle. Moving to the door, she raised the latch, listened, and slipped out.

The moist, chill night received her. Her nostrils flared with the excitement of this moment. It was done! She was free. Then she pulled the door shut behind her, tried it, and, when she found it still unlocked, slammed it more sharply. This time, the latch dropped into place with a click.

For a moment she stood undecided. The distant light caught her beautiful face, moist lips smiling, but the eyes hard and bright—the mountain lioness returning from a nocturnal hunt, her bloodlust slaked, but every sense alert to danger. Then she slipped away into the shadows quickly, gracefully.

Silence hung over the night-shrouded roofs until, faintly from a distant courtyard, the high, clear note of a temple bell called to morning prayer.

ONE

The Mountain Temple

The path was rocky and the horse’s hooves slipped on the wet stones. Rain hung in the air like a thick mist. In a gully a miniature waterfall had formed, its muddy current splashing and gurgling downhill. Patches of wet fog hung between the sagging branches of tall cryptomerias like giant jeweled cobwebs.

The tall rider sat hunched forward in the steady downpour, his big sedge hat joining seamlessly with the straw rain cape covering his body. At a turn in the path he straightened and peered ahead. Ah, finally! The curving blue-tiled roof and the red-lacquered columns of the main gate to the temple lay just ahead. Beyond the plaster walls, dimly seen in the grayness of mist and rain, rose a graceful five-storied pagoda and the many roofs of temple halls and monastic outbuildings.

The tired horse smelled stables and shook his head, releasing a shower of water. Its rider was Sugawara Akitada, returning to the capital from one of the far northern provinces. Akitada was still young, in his mid-thirties, and physically strong, but days of forced riding had worn him out. The steady cold rain had made this particular day’s journey across the mountains especially wearying, and now, in the fading light of early evening, he was forced to seek the temple’s hospitality: a simple room, a hot bath, and a vegetarian supper.

Two other travelers had reached the gate ahead of him. The man had already dismounted and was solicitously helping a lady from her horse. They both wore rain gear similar to Akitada’s, but the woman’s broad-rimmed hat was also covered by a thick veil, sagging with moisture. She rearranged it impatiently and walked up the steps to the gateway, the lavishly embroidered hem of her gown sweeping through the mud behind her.

As Akitada stopped to dismount, her companion struck the bronze bell at the gate. Its high clear metallic sound broke the peaceful splash and drizzle of the rain. Almost immediately the gate opened and an elderly monk appeared, looking uncertainly from the couple to the tall rider waiting behind them.

The woman’s companion, unaware of Akitada, explained, “We are traveling to Otsu and cannot go any farther today. Can you give us shelter?”

The monk hesitated. “Is the other gentleman with you?”

They both turned then to look in surprise at Akitada, who looked back calmly. Though he could not see the lady’s face behind all that wet veiling, he knew she was young, for she moved quickly and with studied grace. The man was stocky, well-built, and in his late twenties. He wore traveling clothes of good quality and, like Akitada, had a sword stuck through his sash. A gentleman, perhaps. Certainly a member of the affluent class. His face was not handsome, but open and friendly, and he bowed politely to Akitada before telling the monk, “Oh, no. There are just the two of us. This gentleman is a stranger to my sister-in-law and myself.”