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like the grasping, thorny talons of a hundred swooping falcons.
    Cries went up for Khelben Arunsun, a relative of the Thann family and the most powerful wizard in all of Waterdeep, but the archmage was not presently in the
    hall. Frenzied chanting mingled with the growing clamor as a few lesser mages tried their hands at containing the runaway magic. The best that any of them could do was to change the hue of the flowers from their elven blue to a more mundane shade. Still the bush came on.
    All of this took less time than the telling would take. In the first moments following his spell, Danilo stood in slack-jawed amazement at the very center of the verdant maelstrom, unscathed by the wild growth of thorn and branch. He saw at once that Arilyn might not be so fortunate. Too many times had she witnessed his “miscast” spells, and he feared she would not understand that this night, the danger was real. She stood at alert but did not flee the approaching thorns.
    Danilo thought fast. “Elegard aquilar!” he called, praying that Arilyn could read the truth of the matter in the old Elvish battle cry.
    As he’d hoped, the half-elf’s sapphire eyes went flat and level, a warrior’s ready stare. Her moonblade hissed free of its scabbard as the racing limbs closed in. She lifted the sword in time to bat aside the first leafy assault, then fell into a deft, practiced rhythm.
    Some of the thorny limbs dove into the crowd of retreating guests, tearing at their bright clothing and tangling with flowing hair. Panic set in, and the nobles turned tail and made a frantic, collective dash for the exits. Graceful dancers tripped on their diaphanous skirts and sprawled. Courtly gentlemen leaped over their ladies’ prone bodies in their race toward safety. The musicians abandoned their posts—all but for the waggish uilleann piper who struck up the first plaintive notes of “My Love, She is a Wandering Rose.”
    Through it all, Arilyn’s elven blade danced and sliced. Severed limbs piled around her, hampering her attempts to wade forward and cut down the source of the spell.
    The rosebush, that is, not the spellcaster.
    So Danilo fondly hoped.
    Still, he couldn’t be completely certain. As Arilyn advanced on him, slashing her way through the persistent growth, the expression in her blue eyes was grim and furious.
    Danilo couldn’t fault her. He was renowned for his miscast spells, but never had he turned one of his pranks upon Arilyn. He winced as one of the limbs broke through her guard and snagged her skirt. The sapphire velvet gave way with a resounding rip, tearing her gown from thigh to ankle and leaving a thin, welling trail of blood on her exposed leg.
    Instinctively Danilo’s hand dropped to the place where his sword usually hung, and he started to move toward her before he remembered he was weaponless.
    “Hold,” she commanded. She lunged forward, her sword whistling in so high and close that Danilo felt the wind of it on his face.
    He fell back a step, then began to turn in a circle, looking for some way to bridge the verdant barrier between himself and Arilyn. Suddenly the bush ceased its advance. The halted branches, poised as if for renewed flight, began to shimmer with green light. Severed limbs faded into mist. The bush disappeared—all but for the single, half-blown blue rose lying on the marble floor.
    From the corner of his eye, Danilo noted that the guests were edging back into the hall, their faces bright with mingled wariness and curiosity. However, his attention was fixed upon the grim, disheveled woman before him, and his usually nimble tongue felt weighted down with stone as he sought for some word of explanation.
    “What a remarkable performance. Again, I might add,” observed a cultured, feminine, all-too-familiar voice at his elbow
    Without turning, without seeing the direction of the speaker’s ice-blue stare, Danilo knew that his mother’s ironic commentary included both his miscast spell and