Slowly, Haazahri shook her head. "No," she said, confusion in her eyes. "I never could admit it to myself before, Matlin. But you have a way ... you put it so simply. No, Matlin. I don't believe that."
"Good, because otherwise we would have been defilers."
"I don't understand."
"I'm not sure I do, either. But we're going up there. We can work our way up among the rocks, when the guard is out of sight. We can—"
"It will be dangerous."
"I have to chance it. You don't."
"I'll go with you. I already said so, Matlin. But why will we be defilers?"
"Because there's something up there. Oh, I don't know what. Something, though. Waiting for me. My head, Haazahri! My memory! As if I've been sundered, disembodied, and part of me is up there. I—I had it once, this thing. I had it, and lost it. No ... wait. I had it, then hid it. It was something—dynamite, Haazahri. Something so explosive that I didn't know what to do with it but knew I must do something. Like playing with fire, the memory says."
"What kind of fire?"