The highest kingdom is that, in splendour that, like rain diamonds, shines within the clouds. Which shines down through the perpendicular arches, through wet grey stone onto tesselated prisms, penrose-tiled galleries of the cathedral.
Malcolm, prince of the outer kingdom, dark and certainly irritable, sits on his throne, his virible sword neglected by his side (and blood of enemies vanquished still not cleaned off).
He contemplates at the vaulted roof where the artist (now headless in an unmarked hole) had started to paint his family's struggle and triumph.
"Not good," thinks Malcolm, "not finished, not good. Shame that oil-stained arse was not up to the task."
There's stone dragons in the marble corners, with glowering eyes and red breath full of new meat.
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