Across the Long Sea

By Sarah Remy

The gripping follow-up to Stonehill Downs

As the most valuable asset in the kingdom of Wilhaiim, Malachi Doyle has many responsibilities—protector, assassin, detective, and King Renault's right-hand man. And until he met Avani in the cursed village of Stonehill Downs, he believed he was the last of his kind: a magus who can communicate with the dead.

But Wilhaiim is left vulnerable when Mal and his page, Liam, are kidnapped and ferried across the Long Sea to a warring kingdom in search of its own magus. To make matters worse, a springtime plague is rapidly spreading, and beneath the earth the sidhe are preparing for war. With Mal missing and presumed dead, Avani reluctantly takes his place as Wilhaiim's magus. But her powers are unreliable and untested, her many allies are treacherous, and she is certain Mal is alive. Will she be able to keep Wilhaiim—and herself—safe?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9780062383440

Sarah Remy

Sarah Remy writes fiction to keep real life from getting out of hand. She lives in Spokane, Washington, where she shows horses, works at a local elementary school, and rehabs her old house.

Book preview

Plague

T

HE

CHILD

COWERING

in the corner of the cold room whimpered when Malachi Doyle bent over her corpse.

Mal paused, scalpel poised over a particularly large pustule. He glanced beneath his elbow at the weeping spirit, and tried to summon patience. Only half a morning into the day’s work, and already he was more than eager to strip off his leather apron and retreat.

Lass, he said, trying for gentleness. It’s as I told you. There’s no reason to stay.

The child hadn’t seen more than three summers when she’d succumbed, first of her small family lost to the new plague the residents of Wilhaiim had already dubbed the Red Worm, for the odd scarlet filaments that formed at the center of telltale blisters. Mal knew the little girl wouldn’t be the last of her siblings mourned. Wilhaiim’s temple was filling quickly with sickened babes.

Anna, the ghost sobbed, as she had done since Mal first arranged her small corpse on his table for examination. My Anna!

Swallowing a sigh, Mal set his scalpel on the scarred marble tabletop. He scrubbed the palms of his hands over the front of his apron, striving for calm, then turned and faced his unwanted guest.

I don’t know Anna, he said. Is Anna your mam, lass? Your mam isn’t here, child. Go and find her, why don’t you?

The ghost child was changed in death, unmarked by the raw sores and the rictus of pain that turned her corpse grisly. The haunt wore her white-­blonde hair in two neatly braided fishtails. Vexation flushed her round cheeks pink. There were ribbons on her dress, and a multitude of lacy pockets. From a wealthy family, Mal guessed, and likely spoiled, which explained the glint of temper in her dark eyes.

She’d been someone’s beloved daughter before the first of the spring plagues had claimed her.

Mal crossed the room and knelt to meet her glare. The flagstones were cold through his trousers, the wall against the child’s back limned with frost.

Mayhap you’re Anna? he guessed. Annabel? It’s a lovely name.

The ghost scowled and snuffled. She was too brave to flee, but her edges went thin and fretful. He could see the wall through her wavering form.

Good, Mal thought, although he knew he was being unkind. Go and find your mam, lass, and leave me alone.

No! the girl gasped, and tears wet her lashes. She thumped a small fist against her chest. "No, no! Anna! My Anna!" Her protests were quickly escalating into howls.

Hells! Mal snapped. Someone needs a nap!

The child quieted mid-­shriek, mouth hanging open, nose dripping. Her dark eyes widened impossibly further, and then she hiccuped.

No, she said, hopeful. Her mouth puckered.

Blood of the King. A reluctant grin twitched Mal’s own lips. You were a terror, weren’t you? I’m sorry.

I thought you preferred not to converse with them. Unless necessary. A voice behind Mal said.

Your Majesty. Mal rose and turned. Apologies. I didn’t hear your knock.

Because I didn’t. Wilhaiim’s King Renault stared through the ghost-­child, unseeing, then graced Mal with a weary smile. Are you interrogating the dead, brother? Over a case of the plague?

Mal shook his head, waving a dismissive hand. Renault stepped further into the room. He was not a large man, yet wide at the shoulders as Mal was narrow, sturdy where Mal was lately too thin. The king wore red livery, and a circlet of true gold around his brow. His beard was clipped short in the current fashion, and his dark hair carefully coiffed, but his muddy eyes were red from lack of sleep, his lips chapped from too many hours spent outside in the spring winds.

A matched set of tonsured theists followed Renault into Mal’s laboratory. They set themselves one to either side of the door, lips moving soundlessly in prayer. They carried torches for light and warding: small bundles of tansy lashed just below the flame, smoldering. The masterhealer believed the burning of precisely selected herbs kept illness at bay.

Mal was less inclined to ascribe magical properties to flora. He knew Avani would take him to task for his skepticism. He wouldn’t let himself admit just how much he missed the island witch’s strange notions, so he glared at the torches instead.

Smoke in my cold room, he said. Only complicates things.

One of the yellow-­eyed priests looked as if he’d like to argue, but Renault silenced him with a look.

Wait outside, the king ordered. Shut the door. This room is kept clean.

Renault waited until they were alone, then looked at Mal.

Would that you could purify the city entire, he said. Cleanse the plague from the continent.

The precise spells used to ward these rooms are long forgotten, Mal said. I haven’t the knowledge to ward much larger than your chamber pot, let alone Wilhaiim. He shook his head, trying to rattle away gloom. Come, look. It’s as we suspected.

Renault was long used to Mal’s table and its horrors. Even so, the king flinched when he looked down at the pitiful corpse laid out across marble.

So young, he said.

That’s the puzzle, isn’t it? Mal dipped his hands in a bowl of clear ferment, and then retrieved his scalpel. Why are they all so young? Not a single cadaver over ten summers, not yet.

Not yet. Renault shook his head, folded his hands behind his back. So. What have you determined?

Very little.

The ghost lass crept forward, leaving her corner to tiptoe closer, near enough she could reach out and touch Mal’s apron. Her body on the table was pliant, not long free of rigor mortis, her limbs limp, and her jaw agape. The fluids of death stained her braids, and the ribbons on her dress. Her feet were bare, her small toes scab encrusted.

They heal, then. Renault nodded at the crusts. Heal over and scab.

Only to form again, ofttimes in their original location. Mal used the tip of his scalpel to delicately lift a scab from the corpse’s instep. Beneath the brown crust, fluid burst, the pustule grown deep instead of up, eating flesh and muscle.

Some run deep as to touch bone, Mal said. The ghost girl pressed against his leg, fisting fingers in his trousers. She was very strong for a new-­made spirit. And determined.

Anna! she reminded him.

Yes, yes, hush. Mal cleansed his scalpel in the bowl of ferment. Renault arched his brows, but didn’t comment.

It’s not the blisters that kill, Mal continued. It’s the fever, and the loss of fluids, and the ruination of the lung tissue. Although, he paused, maybe it’s blisters in the lungs damaging tissue. I’ll know more once I cut her open.

Renault brushed a soiled lock of hair from the corpse’s brow, his murmured prayer nearly unintelligible. Mal was glad the nervous priests weren’t witness to the quiet benediction, the tactile affection.

Explain the red worms.

Not living, so not worms in truth, Mal said. Strings of coagulate, I suspect. Or infection. I’ve seen something similar before, when I was a child. In the bite of coastal sand fleas, if I recall.

Means of transmission? Renault washed his fingers in Mal’s bowl.

Yet to be determined. Mal slit the child’s gown from collar to hemline. Ribbons fluttered on lace when he spread the fabric away from the body. But I’ve no reason to believe it’s other than the usual methods. Coughing, sneezing; infection shed in shared snot or other bodily fluids.

The ghost was near to climbing Mal’s leg, small fingers gripping the edge of the dissection table, knees clenched around his thigh, lithe as a monkey. She stretched, reaching.

Anna! Anna! Mine!

Renault didn’t look around, but he smiled.

It’s the pockets she wants, the king said.

Mal kept his expression smooth.

Can you see her, then? he asked.

Nay. Renault turned on one heel, still smiling. But I know children, and her desperation is nigh palpable. Your trouser is flapping. Look at her pockets, Vocent. She’s stuffed them with treasures.

Anna! the ghost agreed, bouncing against Mal’s knee.

It’ll be the doll, there. The king tilted his chin. Last pocket, green ribbons. Cloth doll, see it? Pretty little thing. Katie had one just like it, from childhood.

Mal hesitated in retrieving the treasure, but Renault’s smile remained in place.

Here, now. Mal turned the little doll over on his palm, noting the elaborate detail on the fabric face, and the miniscule gown made to match that of the corpse. The doll had hair of dyed yarn, tacked to her skull with an unfamiliar adhesive, and tiny ribbons on her sleeves.

Is this your Anna, lass?

He set the doll on the floor. The haunt immediately let go her grip on the table and his leg and scrambled after. She clutched the doll to her chest, tears turned to giggles.

Then she was gone, and the doll with her.

Renault made a sound of dry amusement.

It used to startle me, the ways of your spirits, the king admitted. But I believe I’ve grown accustomed. At long last. Placated, was she?

Yes, Mal answered. You were quick to understand the problem.

Renault only shrugged. You saw the interruption; I imagined the child. It comes of spending too long with too many nieces and nephews, all royally spoilt. Now, he set his shoulders, Show me these filaments. I want to look at them through your magic glass.

Yes, Majesty. Mal bent to his task.

R

ENAULT

WAS

LONG

gone and day turned to night and back again, Mal lost in his own head, hands and apron turned splotchy by the vegetable dye used on specimen glass, when the quick slap of boot heels on flagstone brought him around.

Nearly there, he assured his king. "Nearly, nearly. Definitely infection, not a sidhe sorcery, and if not easily contained, at least—­"

My lord!

Ah. Mal blinked the world back into focus. He turned from his table, surprised. Liam. Not ready for supper quite yet, but thank you. Tell His Majesty—­

No, my lord. The young page stood rigid, a trellis of scars white against flushed cheeks. He was out of breath, and sweating. You’re wanted. Right away, my lord. It’s your father.

Renualt’s throne room was deserted but for a few subdued courtiers warming their hands in front of the roaring hearth. Two men and one woman, each dressed in their lightest spring finery beneath incongruous winter furs, they glanced up at Mal’s abrupt entrance, then bowed their heads again in respect. Mal recognized the woman: Peter Shean’s sharp-­tongued wife. While Mal’s old friend was an affable man, often cheerful and eager to please, his wife was a different sort. The scrape of grudging pity across her usually sour face was more disconcerting to Mal than Liam’s barely contained concern.

Guardsmen just inside the chamber pulled the double portal closed behind Mal. He heard the reassuring muffled clank of the crossbar being set. Liam stepped to one side precisely as an armed kingsman moved to take his place. The exchange of escort was as practiced as any dance, and Mal was just as glad of that precaution as he was of the heavy bar across the chamber door.

It had taken an entire season of solid argument and sound reasoning to convince Renault his kingdom was under invisible threat.

Mal pinned his gaze to the kingsman’s red-­clad shoulders. The large stone chamber was cold but for the mid-­room hearth; spring winds shook floor-­to-­ceiling windows behind the throne. More winter fur draped the throne. Mal could smell the hot spice tea Renault consumed in great jugs throughout the windy season.

Outside the castle, spring slowly thawed the land, but inside the thick walls, chill lingered.

The kingsman drew to a halt at the bottom of the great stone steps. Mal continued the climb to Renault. Fifteen steps, the graystone worn down by the tread of generations. The king watched Mal from his throne, chin dipped low in thought, the fingers of one hand tapping restlessly against his thigh.

Brother, Renault said, once Mal had made his obeisance. "We’ve had news this morning, just before dawn. A rider from the Rose Keep. Your father is on his deathbed.

Mal spread his hands, noting distantly the green and yellow discolorations left over from his work. He tipped his shoulders in respect, but let Renault see the irony in his smile.

I’ll light a temple candle, Your Majesty.

Your mother is desirous of more than a candle, Malachi. She requests the comfort of your presence.

Mal coughed. Renault sighed and straightened. He snapped gloved fingers at the robed intendant waiting at the foot of the steps.

Clear the chambers.

Mal coughed again. Renault waited, bland. The intendant emptied the room with a single blast of a silver trumpet. Peter Shean’s shrewish wife glowered once at Mal before she was ushered away through the double portals.

That one doesn’t like you, Renault said, amused, once the chamber was clear but for the king’s attendant triplicate of guardsmen. What have you done to deserve her ire?

"Her young son continues to mock Liam’s sidhe scars. Mal folded his hands behind his back so Renault couldn’t see them clench. I’ve encouraged my page to stick up for himself, as even little lordships occasionally need their attitudes rearranged."

No doubt. I can’t suppose Peter approves of his lad’s attitude.

Lord Peter is unaware.

I see. Renault pulled bearskin closer about his shoulders. These winds need to stop, and soon. The howling drives us all mad. You’re going to Selkirk, Mal. I’ve already sent a messenger. Your mam deserves the kindness, no matter the trouble between you.

Forgive me, Majesty, but I’m needed here. The plague season—­

Is well and truly upon us, I know. We’ll manage to survive without your counsel for a fortnight.

A fortnight! Mal protested. Five days, at most. Two either side, for travel, and a day spent on my knees in Selkirk Temple, the prodigal son returned.

Your mam begged a fortnight. Renault said, implacable. You’ll leave tomorrow morn, and present yourself back here fourteen days on, no earlier. And you’ll bring me your mother’s thanks as proof of your attendance.

I’m not a child!

The triplicate guard stirred as one, disapproving. Mal reined back his temper, lowered his voice. The Red Worm—­

"It’s an honest disease, not a sidhe contagion. I haven’t sat fifteen years on this throne and learned nothing about surviving the plague season. I’ve an army of priests working toward containment. The fever will run its course; Wilhaiim will endure. Renault smiled beneath his beard. Take your page, brother. The time away will do him good."

Mal examined the tips of his boots. Renault waited, allowing temper to dissipate. At last Mal looked up, nodded once.

You’ll send for me if I’m needed. It wasn’t a question.

Of course.

A fortnight, then. Mal bowed very correctly, then backed down the wide steps, graceful with long practice.

When he reached level ground, he turned, ignoring the watchful guard, and strode toward the double portal, bootheels just a little too loud against graystone.

Malachi. Renault’s gentle amusement drifted after.

Mal froze. Yes, Majesty?

Make your mam weep, brother, and I’ll have you whipped. I owe her my life and my heart, both.

Yes, Majesty.

L

IAM

FOLLOWED

M

AL

through the palace, unimpressed by his master’s gritted teeth and angry stride.

Would you really make her cry, my lord?

Who?

The halls were filled to bursting with courtiers too bored to linger in their chambers, too wary of the plague to venture out into the wind. They lowered their eyes when Mal pushed past; one or three flinched from the brush of his shoulder. Mal ignored them as he always did.

Your mam?

My mother doesn’t waste time on tears, Mal replied. He spoke a simple unlocking cant over the latch of his chamber door, then shoved the door open. She’s a sea lord’s wife; she cut her milk teeth on loss and deprivation.

Midmorning sun turned Mal’s room bright and cheerful, despite the incessant rattle of wind against windowpane and stone. Mal lit the fat candles in their multicolored lanterns with another muttered word, and then threw himself into the leather chair set askew behind his writing desk.

He toed off his boots, watching as Liam selected a ripe peach from the collection of fruit Mal kept in a bowl atop the mantel. The boy had grown since Winter Ceilidh—­sprouted into a gangly youth, as much muscle as bone. He’d taken to wearing his hair longer than was lately fashionable; the dark waves fell across his face, untidy. Mal itched to take a pair of scissors to the mess, but hadn’t yet found the courage. He suspected Liam would put up a fight and didn’t relish the tussle.

Where’s Jacob got to?

Dunno, the lad replied. He chewed thoughtfully. Haven’t seen him since this morning. Mad for any bird to be about in this wind.

He’ll show. Mal propped his stockinged feet on the edge of his desk, rolled his neck, and closed his eyes. What news from the temple?

Liam hesitated, either because his mouth was full of peach, or because the report was unpleasant. Likely the latter, Mal thought.

Aye, well, the boy said at last. They’re digging from dusk to dawn, now. Burying the young’uns. Order’s gone out: none to leave their homes until Red Worm runs its course. The theists are handing out masks, and smudging the streets. I don’t much like the masks.

You’ll grow used to them, Mal said, if you intend to stay to manhood in the city. They’re a veritable spring staple. Some of the wealthier citizens pay good coin for embellished versions. Embroidery, feathers, gewgaws, and the like. Avani might have made a fortune.

Liam’s shudder audibly rattled Mal’s desk.

It ain’t right—­

It’s not right.

"It’s not right, making a pretty thing out of sickness and death. Especially when it’s the little children dying, my lord, and their mums and das crying on the cobblestones."

Mal opened one eye, wondering if the lad had purposefully brought their conversation full circle. Liam wiped peach juice from his pointed chin.

Shall I pack, my lord?

Later, Mal decided. I do in fact need an actual body count, Liam. Go down to the temple and bring me back a number.

Liam made a face, then spit his peach pit into the hearth. The flames jumped to receive the offering.

Aye, my lord.

Thank you. Mal closed his eye again. And, Liam, wear your mask.

I ain’t got—­

Haven’t.

"Haven’t got one, my lord."

Find one, then. Before you go down into the city. They’ll be handing them out at every exit.

My lord, Liam groaned, loud. I’m near enough a man grown. The Red Worm’s been taking only the young, the infants and the babes and the striplings.

Wear it. Common sense over vanity, lad. Promise me.

Aye, my lord.

Thank you. Mal smiled at the backs of his eyelids. Close the door on your way out, please.

Mal counted it a small triumph when the lad stomped his way back across flagstone and into the hall, pulling the door closed with an energetic click. Only a season earlier and Liam would have slunk, little more substantial than another shadow against the wall.

Avani would be pleased to hear of the lad’s growing confidence. Mal considered stirring himself to write, but knew only the most urgent of correspondence would be allowed out of the city while the Red Worm raged.

Containment, Mal sighed. He crooked an elbow over his face, rubbed his forearm against the bridge of his nose, and wished he didn’t feel the growing weight of the newly dead pressing against the inside of his skull.

M

AL

DREAMED

OF

Avani and limestone pillars shining silver beneath the earth. He woke with a shudder, one hand fisted around the yellow ring of his office. He released the ring slowly, flesh remembering not the smooth impression of true gold, but the rough-­hewn facets Avani’s rubies. The stone in the ring flashed. He didn’t remember pulling the band from his finger, but there it lay, warm on the palm of his hand.

The raven perched on the windowsill laughed, raucous. The fire on the hearth was ember and smoke, Mal’s fat candles gone completely out, flames snuffed by the same whistling gusts ruffling Jacob’s feathers.

I shut that for a reason. Mal stared at the bird. The bird stared balefully back. Half my papers are now on the floor.

Jacob blinked a black eye, and then flew from the window to the drape of velvet over Mal’s bed. Mal rose. The wind through the window was hot and damp. He cranked the pane shut, then paused, caught by his reflection in the opaque glass.

His own hair was little better than Liam’s tangle. He’d had no time to tend to it, lately, and now it hung nearly past his shoulders, sleek and dark as the raven’s wing. He touched his chin and found the scrape of bristle. His green eyes were wary in a thin face.

Past time for a shave and a bathe, or Lady Selkirk would flay him raw with the edge of her tongue.

Hells, he sighed, obscuring his reflection with the fog of his breath. Time to go home.

Chapter One

A

TONSURED

PRIEST

in a dust-­colored robe handed Mal an embroidered square of black linen trailing satin ribbons.

Lord Vocent, your mask.

Liam muffled a laugh in his sleeve.

Very fancy, my lord, the boy said.

Give it to my page, said Mal. He’s in need.

King’s orders, my lord. The priest bowed, unsmiling, then pulled a second square of linen from his sleeve. For the both of you, my lord.

My, my. Mal accepted the mask with ill grace. "Are those feathers, Liam?"

No, my lord. Liam tied the mask neatly about his nose and mouth. Fringe, my lord.

Mal tied his own mask in place, satin ribbons slipping against the leather of his gloves. He shouldered his pack and ducked beneath the low portcullis guarding the king’s private gate.

Horses, he said, disliking the press of fabric against his lips. This way.

Liam shouldered his journey bag and followed Mal. The boy’s red livery stood out in the smoky half fog shed by smudging torches. Wrapped in the black cloak of his order, Mal was all but invisible.

Strange to see it so empty, Liam murmured. The bailey, I mean. And the rest of Wilhaiim.

Mal, walking shoulder-­to-­shoulder with the city’s ever-­present ghosts, only grunted. The dead were mostly silent as they paced cobblestones, mayhap as disconcerted by the torches as their living neighbors.

They’ve shut down the Fair, Liam continued, nudging up against his master. The crown of his head topped Mal’s shoulder, when it seemed only days earlier the lad had been barely elbow height.

You’ll be glad of the fresh air, Mal said. Some find sea air quite invigorating.

Did you?

I found it cold, Mal admitted, smiling behind his mask.

Their mounts were saddled and waiting, shifting nervously in the smoke. Renault’s stable master shook his head, his own mask a much more practical creation of burlap and hemp.

Safe travels, Lord Vocent. The man’s cheeks were damp with grief or ash. South gate’s best. They’re burying the children back north.

How many? Mal asked while Liam lashed their packs to their saddles. He’d stopped asking the boy to bring him fresh reports once the tally had topped eighty. Most of Liam’s companions were of noble blood, and so safely sequestered behind castle walls, but Mal wanted to save Avani’s lad what heartbreak he could.

More than I’ve stones on my abacus, my lord. The stable master shook his head. We’re like to lose a generation before the Red Worm sleeps.

Mal sketched the temple cross against his breast, a blessing and benediction. The stable master nodded, jaw set.

Don’t stay away long, my lord, he said. His Majesty misses you fierce when you’re off and about.

Thank you, Mal replied. He swung up into the saddle. His mount, a sturdy bay gelding, stood placidly as he adjusted cloak and sword. Liam’s skinny chestnut flicked its tail, ready to be off. Neither animal seemed much bothered by the smoke and ash.

This way, my lord, Liam said, urging his horse forward. Mal pressed his gelding forward, hiding a smile. He could feel the stable master’s fretful gaze between his shoulders long after the haze swallowed him up.

The back bailey was quiet but for the mournful squawk of a single roaming hen. The royal blacksmith worked alone in his shop, absent his usual journeymen youth. His hammer struck clear and crisp against his anvil, the roar of his forge muffled. His wife sat silently in the window of their home above the shop, mending. Both wore simple masks; neither spoke as Mal rode by.

There were theist priests at the north gate. They bowed farewell, stepping back when Liam’s chestnut flicked his tail in warning.

Once past Wilhaiim’s graystone walls Mal urged his horse into a gallop, eager to escape the smolder and stink of smudged herbs. The King’s Highway was empty of traffic so near to the city, and the small squatter’s village grown up long ago against the walls was empty. Merchants who would under normal circumstances be up and plying their wares at the Fair were no doubt still abed, treating quarantine as an enforced rest, hiding from the wind as it rattled and shook their flimsy hovels.

Just past the ghetto the highway forked. Malachi and Liam rode west, toward sea and sunshine and clean air, the spring wind scraping at their faces. Liam whooped, kicking his chestnut into gallop. Mal let the boy charge ahead; his red livery wasn’t easily lost in the background of rolling green hills.

He didn’t startle when the raven dropped from the sky, a susurrus of ebony feather against battering air currents. Jacob made a great show of landing on Mal’s shoulder, grumbling and preening.

Safer to ride than to fly, Mal agreed, amused. Wind like this one’s like to toss you into tree or cobblestone.

Jacob poked at Mal’s newly shorn curls,

Reviews for Across the Long Sea

[rubyandthetwins · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Malachi Doyle is the King's Lord Vocent - a man of many talents and very few fears. His responsibilities to king and kingdom are many: as protector, royal investigator and assassin, the trusted right hand of King Renault, himself. Indeed as the most valued asset in Wilhaiim, Malachi has become much beloved by the king, and truly indispensable. And until he met Avani of the cursed village of Stonehill Downs, Mal had always believed himself to be the last of his kind - a magus with the extraordinary ability to communicate with the dead.When Mal receives an urgent summons to return home to his native province of Selkirk, he reluctantly sets out to make the journey. However, the kingdom of Wilhaiim is left vulnerable when the magus and his young page, Liam, are ambushed and seized from the bustling seaport of Selkirk. As the two hostages battle for their lives on board a ship bound for the fractured kingdom of Roue - a warring kingdom across the Long Sea - Malachi soon learns that Roue is a kingdom in need of its own magus; willing to resort to such desperate measures to acquire one.To make matters worse, a springtime plague is spreading rapidly through Wilhaiim and decimating the population. While it is believed that the sickness is being caused by some natural contagion - and nothing more mysterious than that - the situation is no less dangerous in the realm of the fair folk. Beneath the earth the sidhe have been preparing for war; but otherwise have kept to themselves for the past year.A year ago, a majority of the residents living in the village formerly known as Stonehill Downs were murdered, and the entire village razed to ground by dark magic. While many others believe the land is now cursed, Avani - one of the very few survivors - nevertheless has been working diligently with certain members of the sidhe to rebuild her home. However after she receives devastating news of Mal's abduction from his own home province, Avani reluctantly steps into his position as Wilhaiim's magus.Her allies are few and treachery may surround her - but despite hearing a myriad of conflicting reports to the contrary - she is beyond certain that Mal is still alive. Avani's own innate talents tell her that much. However, while her powers as a magus may be wholly unreliable and completely untested, will she ultimately be able to use them appropriately - to keep Wilhaiim, as well as herself - safe?I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed this sequel to Stonehill Downs: A Novel by Sarah Remy. While I was only slightly disappointed that the two main characters spent the majority of the story apart, I soon came to understand that this distance actually enhanced their separate storylines. In my opinion, this was definitely a dramatic sequel - one which moved the story along at a surprising pace. I was intrigued by this story and appreciated the further development of the characters. I look forward to reading more from this author in the future and would certainly give Across the Long Sea an A!

[cherylk_44 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is my first time reading anything by this author. Wow, this book took me on a long, wonderful journey of adventure. As soon as I started reading this book I was intrigued and could not wait to keep reading more. This was even before the story really started with chapter one. Everything about the characters, the storyline, and the travel across lands was great. Mal was rough around the edges but this is only because of the image he had to uphold. He had a lot of wisdom that he did pass along to his sidekick, Liam. For this fact, Liam by the end of the story had grown wiser and stronger. I enjoyed Avani as well. She did start out shaky as well but just like Liam, she grew by leaps and bounds at the end of the story. I enjoyed seeing Avani use her abilities. The fact that there was a deadly plague and that the dead could talk kept this story interesting and new. A nice take on historical fiction with a fantasy twist. I look forward to reading more books by this author. The title of this book may have the word "long" in it but there was nothing long about reading this book.