The moon was beginning to descend when Clariel awoke, but its light was still clear and bright. It was roughly the third hour of the morning, she thought, still well before the dawn. She lay there, not moving, just staring at the moon for a while, before she remembered the importance of the current phase of the moon. It would be full tonight, and if Mogget had told her the truth, her protective garments would completely fail. She had to get to Belisaere and do what was needed before the next moonrise, which would be shortly before midnight.

Groaning a little, she levered herself up on one elbow and saw the dragon. Its head did look like the corners of the Abhorsen’s table, but its body didn’t resemble any picture Clariel had ever seen in a book of children’s tales. It was not sinuous and reptilian, but more like an enormous bat. It was covered in light grey bristly hair rather than scales; its taloned forelimbs were part of its membranous wings, its hindquarters were muscular and rather feline. It didn’t have a tail as such, but a stumpy stern like the docked tails of the Olmond hunting dogs. Its head was hairless, more skull than flesh, a thing of bony ridges and deep-set eyes. Eyes that were larger versions of Baazalanan’s. Pools of utter darkness, reflecting no moonlight.

It was also smaller than Clariel had expected, only some twenty paces from head to its stunted rear, and its outstretched, leathery wings were only half as long again. The chair the creatures had made was already set on its back, directly behind its head, the legs seemingly fused into the bone beneath. Though they’d called it a chair, it looked more like a throne to Clariel. Made of raw, black iron, its back was high and adorned at the top with flanges and spikes, the armrests were flat plates of the metal, and there was a curving footrest that extended out over the dragon’s head like a half helmet. It did not look comfortable at all, but it was imposing.

‘We are ready,’ rasped the dragon, its breath carrying the hot metallic reek of Free Magic, white sparks falling from its long and dextrous tongue. It extended its neck and laid its head on the ground, so Clariel could step over onto the curving footrest without touching its body.

The chair was cold and uncomfortable, and did not feel anywhere near as secure as being in a Paperwing. Clariel gripped the arms and wedged herself into the seat as best as she could. A moment later, Mogget landed in her lap and began to tread around in a circle, claws extended.

‘Don’t tear my robe!’ said Clariel sharply. She put her hands around Mogget’s middle to put him at her feet, but he immediately retracted his claws and sat down, looking up at her with an innocent expression.