No one had ever offered to buy Rowan a drink before. It didn't bode well for the topic of discussion if Lysander was willing to break tradition.
The Adept of Logic led him to a pub just off a side street, away from the business of the main thoroughfare and the preparation for the festival. It was a small, dark place with lots of worn wood and a hodgepodge of chairs and tables. Even with the windows open, half the room seemed to hide in the flickering shadows cast by the lamps on the walls.
Lysander strode ahead to a table in the corner and acknowledged the waitress with a subtle inclination of his head. "Please bring a pitcher of ale to the table. And we'll need another glass."
Nerves twisted into ropes in Rowan's stomach as he saw the adepts of the other branches seated around the table. He felt like he was being put on trial.
And the man cloaked in illusion behind him was all the evidence required to prove his guilt.
