About the Author
In 1994 Sarah Remy earned a BA
in English Literature and Creative Writing from Pomona College in California.
Since then she’s been employed as a receptionist at a high-powered brokerage
firm, managed a boutique bookstore, read television scripts for a small
production company, and, more recently, worked playground duty at the local
elementary school.
When she’s not taking the
service industry by storm, she’s writing fantasy and science fiction. Sarah
likes her fantasy worlds gritty, her characters diverse and fallible, and she
doesn’t believe every protagonist deserves a happy ending.
Before joining the Harper
Voyager family, she published with EDGE, Reuts, and Madison Place Press.
Sarah lives in Washington
State with plenty of animals and people, both. In her limited spare time she
rides horses, rehabs her old home, and supervises a chaotic household. She can
talk to you endlessly about Sherlock Holmes, World of Warcraft, and backyard
chicken husbandry, and she’s been a member of one of Robin Hobb’s
longest-running online fan clubs since 2002.
For More Information
About the Book:
Title: Stonehill Downs
Author: Sarah Remy
Publisher: Harper Collins/Voyager
Pages: 400
Genre: Fantasy
Format: Paperback/Kindle/Nook
Stonehill Downs follows Mal, a powerful
mage who functions as Lord Vocent, the king’s personal forensic scientist and
detective. Magic and murder are his calling. Never have the two
entangled in quite as terrifying a manner as on Stonehill Downs, where Avani, a
Goddess-gifted outsider, has discovered a host of gruesome corpses reeking of
supernatural malfeasance. The investigation is haunted by ghosts of Mal’s
past, and the two quickly learn that they must cast aside their secrets if they
are to succeed in unearthing the pervading evil—before it’s unleashed from the
boundaries of the Downs, straight into the heart of the kingdom.
For More
Information
Book Excerpt:
Dusk
Andrew
struggled.
Mal
held him down. The old man’s skin burned, and sweat turned his mottled flesh
slick, but still he shuddered as if chilled. Where Mal’s long fingers encircled
his wrists, bruises blossomed.
Perspiration
dampened Mal’s own brow, running in rivulets along his nose and into the
corners of his eyes, stinging. He didn’t move to wipe them away. All of his
strength was focused on the man convulsing beneath his hands.
“Let
him go, Mal.”
“No.”
He refused to spare Siobahn a glance. He refused to acknowledge the disapproval
he felt vibrating across the room.
“Malachi.
You mustn’t keep him back. It’s too painful.”
“For
him? Or for you?” He knew the words were unkind. He didn’t care.
The
air moved as Siobahn shifted. The candles in the close room flickered, shedding
plumes of smoke. Her breath stirred the hair on the back of his head.
Still,
he wouldn’t look around.
The
dying man twisted on silken bedclothes. His mouth gaped open, showing yellow
teeth, and his eyes rolled in his skull.
Mal
knew the old man was all but senseless, but he couldn’t help himself; he bent
forward and peered into the wizened face.
“Andrew,”
he whispered, willing the other man to hear.
“Mal.”
Siobahn forced the issue, stepping away from the shadows and into his line of
sight.
Her
gown rustled. He could hear the soft pad of her slippers along the stone floor.
She slid through the haze of incense, and set her palms flat on the edge of the
bed, leaning across the mattress until he was forced to meet her gaze.
“Let
him go,” she said again. This time she put just a touch of ice into the words.
Mal
no longer took orders, not even from the young woman who had once been his
wife. But she could still pierce him through with her deep blue eyes, and she
knew it.
No
matter how often he wished it otherwise, Siobahn never failed to move him. She
knew that, also.
So
he looked away from Andrew’s gaping mouth, and let her rake him with her gaze.
She was angry, he saw, and disappointed. Maybe she was frightened, but she kept
her smile sweet.
“You’re
holding him back,” she warned. “Don’t make him struggle.”
“He
might still be saved,” Mal argued, even though his heart knew better. Already
the bitter tang of grief roughened the back of his throat.
Andrew
was the last, and Mal didn’t want to be alone.
Siobahn
lifted one hand from the mattress, and set it on Mal’s arm. His tendons
quivered at her touch. Beneath his own fingers Andrew’s muscles convulsed in
response. The ravaged body arched up off the bed, then snapped back onto the
bedclothes.
Blooded
scented the air; a trickle of the dark liquid stained Andrew’s chin. The old
man had bitten through his tongue.
The
violence of the struggle touched Mal at last. He flinched away from the bed,
releasing frail bones. The moment his fingers left Andrew’s flesh, the old man
convulsed again, as though plucked off the mattress by the hands of the gods.
Mal heard bones in the tortured spine snap.
“He’s
on his way,” Siobahn whispered, relieved.
Mal
shuddered. The gods were never gentle with the ones they favored.
He
bent over the bed, and took Andrew’s right hand in his own. There was no
response. The old man was well and truly gone.
Mal
stroked Andrew’s cooling palm with his thumb. Tears still scratched at the back
of his throat. He forced them down, waited until he knew his eyes were dry, and
then he reached over and wiped the blood from Andrew’s mouth with the edge of
his sleeve.
The
blood disappeared into the grain of the dark leather he wore. Mal studied the
cuff, searching for a stain that didn’t show. Then he straightened his
shoulders and set Andrew’s hand back onto the silks.
He
turned from the canopied bed and stepped off the sleeping dais. The suite was
gloomy, the air too thick. The smoke from the massive candles Andrew had so
loved twined with the fumes of eastern incense.
Mal
stumbled over the flagstones, intending to wrench open the windows. He wanted
to breath in the night air, to clear away the headache lurking behind his eyes.
“Malachi,”
Siobahn warned, just as his hand settled on the window latch. “Tradition.
Renault would not be pleased …”
She
broke off, sensing his silent fury.
She
was correct. He almost lifted the latch anyway. If only he could get a taste of
fresh air. He needed the breeze across his face to cool his growing rage. And
Renault would never know.
He
pulled his hand back from the latch and curled his fingers carefully behind his
back. Standing alone in the hazy darkness, he could almost feel the chill of
the night through the windowpane.
Glass
was dearly bought. Only the king’s most beloved were lucky enough to have paned
windows. Mal had glass in his own rooms, but not so much.
Andrew
had been Renualt’s most beloved.
“And
now he’s dead.” Mal forced himself to say it aloud. Briefly, he set his brow
against one cool pane.
“You
need to tell him,” Siobahn said from somewhere over his left shoulder. “You’ve
already waited too long. Renault should have been here earlier. To order the
windows covered and—”
This
time he stopped her words with a snarl. He heard her teeth click as she bit
back the rest of her lecture. He sighed. Again, she was correct. She almost
always was.
“I’ll
go to him now,” he allowed, turning away from his reflection in the glass.
Siobahn
lingered over the bed, poised as though in mid grasp, her fingers still
hovering over Andrew’s face. Mal followed the drift of her unnatural blue gaze
to the glitter of yellow on the dead man’s thumb.
Now
it was his turn to use the power of their connection, to twist her guilt into a
weapon. He strode back across the room until he could pin her with his frown.
She flinched beneath his stare. Her cheeks pinked soft rose in embarrassment or
fear.
“I
thought you had forgotten,” she said.
He
loomed at her side, towering four full handspans above the crown of her head,
and regarded the yellow stone in Andrew’s ring with distaste.
“And
you hoped to remove it for me?” His laugh was bitter, his mouth hard.
“You
know better.”
She
stood in the soft gown she had worn on their wedding day and faced his fury
with dignity.
He
set his hands on her small shoulders and shook her once, gently, but with
passion. Siobahn allowed his touch for a heartbeat. Then she slipped from under
his grasp. Mal almost went after her, but something in her half smile stopped
him.
He
watched as she moved to stand before one of Andrew’s giant candelabras. The
flames bowed, drawn by her very breath.
For
an instant Mal heard as she did; the king’s heavy footsteps echoed between his
ears, pounding with the headache behind his nose.
He
swallowed hard, blinked the pain away, and lifted Andrew’s fingers.
The
ring slid easily over a bony knuckle. The true gold was warm in Mal’s hand. The
yellow jewel burst to life, sending a scattering of starbursts across dead man,
bedclothes, and wall.
“The
king!” she whispered, starbursts glittering in her hair. She let him hear
again. Renault’s footfall almost punched holes in Mal’s tender skull.
He
shoved Andrew’s ring into the small pouch he kept on his belt. Then he moved
away from the canopy, standing where he could be seen from the massive wooden
door Andrew never barred.
He
could hear the march of booted feet in truth, now. It sounded as though Renault
had gathered his entire guard.
“He
knows,” Siobahn murmured from her place among the candles and smoke.
“How?”
“He
slept,” she replied. “He dreamed, as Andrew died. I sent him a vision.”
Mal
heard regret in her admission. No doubt she feared he would be angry.
He
was too exhausted to fume any longer, weighed by grief. He looked over his
shoulder, thinking to reassure, but at that moment the footsteps rolled to a
stop in the corridor outside Andrew’s suite. The heavy door slammed open,
rattling the antechamber.
A
gust of cool air made the candles gutter and go out. Smoke wreathed the room.
Mal’s eyes watered in response.
He
blinked. When his vision cleared, Siobahn was gone, snuffed out along with
Andrew’s pretty tapers.
Mal
rubbed his throbbing brow. Then he set his shoulders, touched the pouch at his
belt, and went to greet his king.
Interview:
- Has writing
been something you always did, or was it a discovered talent that came to
you at a later point?
I’ve written stories for as long as I can
remember. As a child I’d scribble all sorts of fantastical tales in journals
and notebooks. Later, I got a BA in English Lit and Creative Writing. I knew
from the beginning that no matter where I went in life, I’d always be writing.
- Do you remember
how it felt when you were offered that first contract? What emotions stand
out in your memory?
My very first contract was with what was then
a small press and what is now Edge/Tesseract. It was for a little dystopian
scifi novel which happened also to be my college thesis. Years I still have a
copy of the contract and am very proud of that first achievement.
- Is this a first
book, part of a series, or the latest in a long line of many?
Stonehill
Downs
is part of a series. The sequel, Across
the Long Sea, is due out in June. The characters have several stories to
tell, and I expect they’ll pop up again in the future.
- What is the
oddest thing that’s happened to you since you chose to become a
professional writer? Will it ever make it into a book, or is that a
secret?
Actually, being a professional writer is probably
the least odd part of my life. I’ve had more adventures as an elementary school
aid or traveling the country showing horses than I’ve managed as a writer.
Writing’s a pretty solitary act. Although I always do feel awed (excuse the
pun) when I glance across the podium in the middle of a reading and there are
actual real people listening to my rendition.
- Do you have your
next book underway, or other titles in the planning stages?
At the moment most of my energies are going
into my young adult urban fantasy series, The Manhattan Exiles. The series is a
bit too close to my heart. I really wanted to write to about heroes and
villains that are more like the young people I see everyday, a series that’s
less about getting the boy (or girl) and more about shouldering
responsibilities and finding grace in life. The Manhattan Exiles are a pretty
diverse group and I love the for it.
- Do you have a favourite
genre and why? Is it one you write in, read in, or both?
Fantasy, definitely. Also scifi. Mystery.
Romance. I read and write in all of them.
- What, to you,
is the most exciting part of the writing process? Does it change from book
to book or remain the same?
Finishing the novel, always finishing the
novel. When I start a book there’s always excitement, but also a nagging sense
of anxiety. Will I school myself into finishing it? Will I even make deadline?
Can I find the right words to make the story come to life?
When you finally put the novel to bed, it’s a
real relief. And then I’m no longer emotionally attached. It’s not a part of me
anymore.
- If you could
co-author a book with anyone, who would you choose and why? What kind of
book do you think would come from the collaboration?
Oh, gosh. I’d be a horrible co-author,
partially because I’m a control freak and partially because I’d turn into a
complete ‘yes man’. “Whatever you say, Ms Hobb.” “Flying cats and giant octopi?
Of course, Mr Gaiman.” I don’t think I’d be a passable co-author, but I do know
I’m an excellent editor. I love to polish other people’s words.
- Where can
readers find you on the web?
Kay
Scarpetta meets Quentin Coldwater in Darkly Atmospheric, Forensic Fantasy
Debut STONEHILL DOWNS by SARAH REMY.
Harper
Voyager Impulse is dedicated to launching brilliant new voices in fiction, and
we think we’ve found something truly special in debut author Sarah Remy’s
groundbreaking novel of epic fantasy. STONEHILL DOWNS is darkly
atmospheric, filled with multifaceted characters and complex issues of
morality. “This book is layered with more shades of gray than the typical
black-and-white gradients of epic fantasy. STONEHILL DOWNS is perfect for
readers who like Joe Abercrombie, or Peter V. Brett’s Demon Cycle,” says
acquiring editor Kelly O’Connor, who discovered the manuscript in Voyager’s
first open call for digital submissions.
This
novel follows Mal, a powerful mage who functions as Lord Vocent, the king’s
personal forensic scientist and detective. Magic and murder are his
calling. Never have the two entangled in quite as terrifying a manner as
on Stonehill Downs, where Avani, a Goddess-gifted outsider, has discovered a
host of gruesome corpses reeking of supernatural malfeasance. The
investigation is haunted by ghosts of Mal’s past, and the two quickly learn
that they must cast aside their secrets if they are to succeed in unearthing
the pervading evil—before it’s unleashed from the boundaries of the Downs,
straight into the heart of the kingdom.
About
the book:
Malachi
is the last of his kind—a magus who can communicate with the dead, and who
relies on the help of spirits to keep his kingdom safe. When he's sent to
investigate brutal murders in the isolated village of Stonehill Downs, he
uncovers dangerous sorceries and unleashes a killer who strikes close to home.
Avani
is an outsider living on the Downs, one of the few survivors from the Sunken
Islands. She has innate magics of her own, and when she discovers the mutilated
bodies of the first victims, she enters into a reluctant alliance with Malachi
that takes her far from home.
But
Mal is distracted by the suspicious death of his mentor and haunted by secrets
from his past. And Avani discovers troubling truths about the magus through her
visions. She could free Mal, but first they must work together to save the
kingdom from the lethal horror that has arisen.
Media Contact:
Dorothy Thompson
Pump Up Your Book
P.O. Box 643
Chincoteague Island, Virginia
23336
